


and i'm well aware (i write too many songs about you)

by pansexual_intellectual



Series: running through the garden (where nothing bothered us) [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (mentioned but not explicitly described), Album: Fine Line (Harry Styles), Album: Harry Styles (Harry Styles), Angst, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Freddie Tomlinson (exists), Getting Back Together, Harry Styles Calls Louis Tomlinson Pet Names, I STOLE YOUR SONGS I'M VERY SORRY, Internalized Homophobia, It's mild but prompted by the music industry's general homophobia, Lovers To Exes To Friends To Lovers To Exes to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mention of slightly disordered eating, News Media, No pansexuals were harmed in the making of this fic besides of course the author, Olivia Wilde - Freeform, On the Road Again Tour, One Direction Reunion, One mention of - Freeform, Post-Zayn One Direction, Songwriting As An Object Of Heartbreak, Substance Abuse, THE BABY IS REAL, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Time Skips, Tumblr, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson Friendship, also i'm sorry to harry styles this fic may be slightly unfair to him, and is adorable but not as british as Louis wants him to be, apologies to cam, apologies to ed sheeran, apologies to lauren aquilina, apologies to matt maeson, apologies to shawn mendes, as in, babygate, but not in a babygate context, closeting, do you see the problem here, i can write fic but not songs, i too am a tumblr larrie but that's a story for another day, it do be like that sometimes, just to warn you i stole a lot of songs from people to make their new album, lauren aquilina songs, no beta we die like men, oops also apologies to holly humberstone and james bay, or more specifically the hot stir fried mess that is “holivia”, plsss don’t make me laugh, seriously i overused the tumblr larrie community in this, there are hints of zouis but i swear it's all platonic, yeppppp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 93,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansexual_intellectual/pseuds/pansexual_intellectual
Summary: Harry starts drifting around February.Or well, that’s when Louis starts noticing.He leans into Harry’s space to kiss him in the morning, and Harry turns away, so Louis’ mouth glances off his cheek.  Louis blinks, utterly confused, because Harry’s always loved morning kisses.  Harry’s always been the one to kiss him good morning, anyway, heedless of morning breath or other such undignified ills, and besides, Louis even brushed his teeth.“Harry,” Louis says, but Harry’s already loping off to the bathroom, miles of pale skin delineated from the observer’s with patches of tattoos, sporadic and astonishing.  Louis loses his track of thought, just staring,beautiful, beautifulringing in his head, endlessly.OR: 1. once upon a time, Harry broke Louis' heart.  2. They've been friends for years, walking a fine line for longer than that.  3.  One Direction is back together.Just let me know, I'll be at the door, at the door / Hoping you'll come around/ Just let me know, I'll be on the floor, on the floor / Maybe we'll work it out.Canon compliant.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: running through the garden (where nothing bothered us) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101677
Comments: 65
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The way I write fic is kind of… disjointed. So, like, sorry if that bugs anyone, but there will be some blank expanses of time, during which you can fill in whatever you like. One of these is Jay’s death, (as well as Fizzy’s) which I did not include out of respect. Harry does support him during that period of time, though, don’t worry. Also excluded (although referred to and occasionally obliquely illustrated) is the period in which Louis “spiraled” after New York. That was purposeful.
> 
> Also, I didn’t include how Harry and Lou managed to regain/rebuild their friendship and keep in contact. Why? Because it’s awkward, and I don’t want to write it. :) So, basically, you know that they’ve managed to rebuild this slightly unhealthy close friendship (I say unhealthy because it’s slightly unfair to both of them) and that’s where they’re at when we get to the second part.
> 
> Also, I included copious references to HS1, Fine Line, and Walls (although that one was only once bc Walls is mainly an album about overcoming obstacles to form a relationship and it doesn’t fit with the timeline, soz). See if you can spot them!
> 
> Okay, aLSo, I know I kind of accelerated Freddie’s growth and in 2017 he wouldn’t be able to understand and speak in sentences, but just- I NEEDED THE CUTENESS OF LOUIS TRYING TO MOLD FREDDIE INTO A BRIT, OKAY? Okay. So, ignore any plot-holes to do with Freddie, k? Also i know Louis apparently lives in Hertfordshire or whatever but it’s only an hour’s drive from London IGNORE GEOGRAPHY AS WELL.
> 
> P.S. sooooo Louis in this fic writes some songs that he hasn’t written in canon. Most are from this artist called Lauren Aquilina- check her out, she’s fantastic - and she is SO GOOD. All of the songs fit perfectly, it’s insane, although in some occasions I changed the lyrics to fit Louis' experience (and gender lol) better. Her voice is very high and gorgeous and a bit different from Lou’s, but just _imagine it in Louis’ perfect angel raspy voice ahhhh_
> 
> P.P.S. pls listen to (At appropriate times in the fic) _this is me trying_ , _Meet Me In The Hallway_ , _Thinking About_ (Lauren Aquilina), _Wicked Game_ , (laurennnnnnnn), _In My Blood_ , _Ever Since New York_ , _From The Dining Table_ , _Tobacco In My Sheets_ (again, Lauren), _Swap Places_ (lauren), _Delicate_ , _Make Me (Cry_ ), _Fine Line_ , _To Be So Lonely_ , _gold rush_ , _All Too Well_ , _This Love_ , _Fools_ (Lauren Aquilina)

Harry starts drifting around February.

Or well, that’s when Louis starts noticing. He’s always been absent-minded about these sorts of things, affixed to the little nuances of Harry’s speech and behavior, too far absorbed to see the big picture. He couldn’t remember the first time Harry had pulled away from his hand, only that he’d probably been too taken with the way the light, too, fell victim to the long lovely swoops of his curls to notice.

In reality, it probably started around January, and when Louis notices, it’s gradual. First, he leans into Harry’s space to kiss him- not a snog, just a peck - in the morning, and Harry turns away, so Louis’ mouth glances off his cheek. Louis blinks, utterly confused, because Harry’s always loved morning kisses. Harry’s always been the one to kiss him good morning, anyway, heedless of morning breath or other such undignified ills, and besides, Louis even brushed his teeth.

“Harry,” Louis says, but Harry’s already loping off to the bathroom, miles of pale skin delineated from the observer’s with patches of tattoos, sporadic and astonishing. Louis loses his track of thought, just staring,  _ beautiful, beautiful  _ ringing in his head, endlessly. 

Next, it’s the snapping. Louis has always been-himself, too manic and exuberant for the bounds of convention. Part of where his endless confidence comes from- the artless assurance that every scheme will pay off in the long run - is Harry. Harry’s eyes, green and besotted, bestow in him a peculiar recklessness, anything to keep his eyes on me, Louis thinks. He’s not some moping hopeless Bella Swan; he can live and laugh and smile without Harry, but Harry heightens the experience of living, fine-tunes every flavor to its finest. 

All this to say, when Harry starts snapping, Louis notices.

It’s February, they’re on the tour bus, and Louis is badgering Liam. All of this is merely common happenstance. Louis often thinks that when they’ve all passed on and ascended, he will be in the afterlife badgering Liam.

“Li,  _ Li _ . I’m just saying, like. If we- no,  _ Leeyum _ , stop making that fucking face at me, you don’t even know what I’m going to say yet.”

“I know enough to know it’s going to be a bad idea.” Liam sighs, leaning back. Niall’s fucking around on the guitar, and no one’s willing to get him out of “the Zone”, so Louis throws a wadded up piece of paper at Zayn. “Zaynie, pay attention to me.” Louis pouts, and Zayn lifts his eyes from his phone. He looks exasperated and fond, but there’s an unsteady tinge of exhaustion to his features, and Louis wonders if maybe he should inquire, ask if he’s okay, if there’s something wrong- but then Zayn strides up and flops down next to Louis, rolling his eyes.

“What’s this, then?”

“Oh!” Louis says, and sits up, beaming, everything else forgotten. “Well, okay, so. I figure everyone’s gotten used to us by now, eh? So, like, nothing we do’s going to surprise them anymore, right?”

“I don’t think-” Liam interrupts, but Louis throws the nearest object (a white guitar pick emblazoned with a red FRIENDS OF DOROTHY, probably Harry’s) at his face to shut him up. “So! My idea! We lull them into a false- what’s it called, then, a false- false-”

“False sense of security?” Zayn supplies, and wow, Zayn’s the best. “Yes, exactly. So they lower their guard, innit? And then, we surprise them with the big guns. Shock them all.  _ Mayhem _ , Wayne,  _ chaos _ .”

“So, basically, we just relax for a bit and then our usual shit? Sounds good to me, babes.” Zayn says, closing his eyes and snapping his headphones over his ears. Louis nods his approval and turns to Liam.

Liam looks utterly skeptical. “I don’t know, Lou. We’re on our fourth tour, yeah? Don’t you think we ought to be more, I dunno, mature about things?”

Louis stares in aghast horror. “ _ Liam _ ,” Louis shrieks, catapulting himself across the couch and accidentally grazing Harry with his shoes, “ _ Leeyum, how very dare you _ -”

He’s about to launch into the rest of his spiel, which includes both a heartfelt appeal to their youths  _ and _ a cynical analysis of their statuses as “teen icons”, meaning they actually  _ wouldn’t _ be expected to act more adult, but he never gets the chance.

“God, can you not?” Harry snaps, standing in an explosively coordinated movement. Louis goes still, because Harry  _ never _ yells at him, and for a brief second,  _ stupid stupid stupid _ as it is, Louis actually glances behind him to check if Harry’s talking to someone else. 

There’s no one behind him, miles of dead empty air and Louis turns back to Harry, confused. Harry, who’s standing up, hands curled into fists as tight as balled-up peony buds, something recalcitrant and burning in his gaze.

“What-” Louis begins, but Harry’s cutting him off, eyes bright. “ _ Jesus Christ _ , it’s the first day of tour, do we really need to go over this shit again? Some of us have  _ actual singing _ to focus on, you know.”

And Louis- Louis can’t speak. 

He’s always been good, really fucking good actually, about not taking shit from anyone. When his geography teacher told him he wouldn’t amount to anything, he stood right up, sass in full play, and shot back  _ speaking from prior experience? Only, I’m not sure a geography teacher is the best career option out there. _ The internet hate about his singing voice bothers him, yes, but criticism generally has the opposite effect as intended on Louis Tomlinson. Instead of piping down, he’d started arguing for more solos, more ways to prove himself, and for the most part it worked. When people call him “not serious enough”, he dresses up as Batman. 

But this is  _ Harry _ , Harry who’d curled up that day in the X Factor and said, shyly,  _ I think you’re the best the way you are, Lou, you don’t need to change because of some stupid comments on the Internet.  _ Harry, who’d pressed biting kisses to his neck, worshipping the column of his throat for hours and hours, promising him that  _ your voice is gorgeous, Lou, I promise, they don’t know anything _ . Harry, who’d stood up with him in those dim Modest offices and argued louder than him, saying  _ Louis deserves  _ over and over like absolution.

He can’t fucking  _ talk _ . Harry’s words hurt like nothing he’s felt before, and suddenly he wants- he wants to curl up somewhere small, mainly, curl in on himself and never emerge. It’s so new, this feeling like a scolded, slapped, child, humiliated and shocked tears stinging his eyes. It’s genuinely so shocking that he feels almost like an observer to his own pain, like watching some bizarre science experiment, the placement of a heavy stone on wet paper. The paper is crumpling, the weight of the stone tearing away from the fragile material, leaving behind shreds of wet paper and a plummeted stone and Louis really, really, needs to stop making analogies.

Louis opens his mouth and nothing comes out. The tour bus is thick with a ringing, dead, silence. Even Niall’s stopped strumming.

“Sorry,” Harry says after a moment, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Louis nods. Carefully, he gets off of Liam, removing his limbs fragilely. He feels pierced all over, eggshell-thin and trembling. Liam looks horrified, Niall’s got his eyes wide, and their obvious shock humiliates him. He can’t- Harry can’t know, can’t see his face, Louis thinks in a panic, and then he’s rushing into the tour bus bathroom and locking the door, breathing shallowly into his palms.

There’s the hurt, first, the shock and the curdling sense of betrayal, but then, a sudden and horrifying realisation: Harry’s always been his staunchest defender, and what if those moments of unmanufactured intimacy, slow and golden and bristling with limerence, what if the words Harry’s always whispered to him were  _ false _ .  _ I love your voice, you’re perfect, don’t listen to them _ , a burning thicket of pretty reassurances. How to set it against his earlier words, the faint edge of disgusted irritance, which had the ring of unmistakable  _ truth _ . 

“Fuck,” Louis whispers into the meat of his arm, biting down. “Shit.” He says louder, for lack of anything else to say. It’s honestly so fucking stupid, it  _ is _ , but he feels a bit like a child who’s just discovered that Santa isn’t real, that the Easter Bunny is another of those pretty lies, that the world is incontrovertibly smaller than they’ve ever imagined, and nothing will be okay again.

His head bangs against the toilet when he leans back, and he closes his eyes, willing himself to  _ stop, just stop _ , willing the drowning convexity of his ribs to collapse, curve inwards to make way for his knees so he can better hide.

He’s quiet for the rest of the day, silent in a way he’s never been before. Everything feels like a fresh revelation, like lemon juice on stung skin, he’s never felt this delicate. When he can’t find the Yorkshire tea for a brief moment, he almost sits down and cries.

“He didn’t mean it,” Liam mumbles later, “He was just- stressed. H thinks you hung the stars, you know him. He’ll get over it and stop being an arse soon enough.” 

“Mmm.” Louis hums noncommittally, because that’s easier than saying  _ but what if he’s right _ .

  
  


It does get better, at first, Harry kissing Louis’ head when they make for the bunks and tugging Louis into his, curling his body around Louis like some touch-based form of apology. Ordinarily when they’re fighting Louis would climb right out, would turn his head and make Harry work for it, but when Harry touches him all Louis feels is dizzying, helpless, relief,  _ he still wants me _ pounding through his veins. He pushes his nose into the curve of Harry’s neck and shudders once, staying quiet.

The week after that, Harry is wonderful, touching Louis all the time and singing  _ Little Things _ to him over the far side of the stage. Louis smiles- tremulous, a little bit disbelieving.

(It gets worse after that.)

Harry stops touching Louis around March. He stops initiating affection at first and then, soon after, stops accepting affection, turning his head and shrugging away whenever Louis leans in. (The apologetic, involuntary, averting of his eyes is almost worse than the initial pull-back, and Louis stops trying after a while, terrified and silent.)

Louis is caught up, so caught up in trying to win Harry  _ back _ , to just be  _ good _ or  _ Louis _ enough so Harry will want him again, that he doesn’t notice Zayn slipping away until he’s gone already.

He finds out, like the rest of the world, through a tweet and a phone call.

That’s maybe what ruins them, Louis will think after. Maybe if he hadn’t been sad and pining and  _ too much _ . But as it is, Louis throws himself into Winning Harry Back with manic fervor, nauseatingly hopeful, forcing every aspect of Zayn leaving from his mind. 

The thing is, Louis isn’t good at- relationships. He’s been in a long-term relationship with the love of his life- one of the most emotionally intuitive, considerate, people he knows -for five years and he’s still not good at them. He turns, as many do in times of distress, to Cosmo. In retrospect, this may not be the best decision.

Cosmo says a lot of things, but the resounding theme is  _ sex _ . People in a failing relationship, apparently, need to reignite their sex life.

(They haven’t fucked since December- a lazy and satisfying morning of birthday sex.)

Louis’ first attempt is what he considers an unmitigated success. He wakes Harry up with a surprise blowjob, swallowing him deeper than he’s ever tried before (thinking  _ what if I lose him, I can’t lose this _ ; fear is a surprisingly excellent motivator for deepthroating) and Harry wakes in between one swallow and another, arching up and fisting his hands in Louis’ hair.

Louis redoubles his efforts. Sliding a hand under the sheets to touch himself is almost an afterthought. Harry comes with a surprised cry, groaning low in his throat. Louis follows almost instantly after, body aching with hopeful, thrilling, aftershocks.

It’s even better when Harry pulls him up, green eyes in smiling slits, a mess of tangled hair on the pillow and close-mouthed kisses. Their first mouth-to-mouth contact in  _ months _ , and it’s so, so welcome that Louis has to break it off to smile into Harry’s neck.

Harry cuddles him afterwards, and the rest of the day Louis revels in the absentminded smiles Harry sends his way, slices of attention he can’t help but crave.

It fades soon after that, the honeymoon glow dimming in diminishing increments, but Louis is only encouraged. 

His second attempt is after they’ve stumbled back from a club. It’s normal enough- drunk, sloppy kissing, clothing in haphazard heaps throughout the hotel room - that Louis doesn’t notice, at first, that Harry isn’t trying to pull off Louis’ shirt, he’s trying to pull off his hands. He’s trying to push him  _ away _ .

Louis is too drunk to understand; he pushes closer instead of backing away, making an incoherent confused sound into Harry’s mouth. For a moment it works; he pushes Harry against the wall, licking into his mouth. Harry makes a low noise of approval, and Louis dares a hand lower, sliding along his waistband.

It’s as if the touch shocks something into Harry; he again starts pushing Louis away and this time, he isn’t easily distracted by the heat of Louis’ mouth. “Get  _ off _ ,” Harry hisses, and Louis falters, movements stilling as he registers Harry’s words.

Harry’s final shove sends him flying. There’s a brief moment of shock, of disbelieving adrenaline, the weightless feeling of nothing beneath him, and then he’s falling, tailbone dashing unforgivingly against the carpeted floor, pain spreading where the lush fanciful nubs of the Oriental carpet strike him. 

“I said  _ no _ , Louis,” Harry says, the words stilling as he looks at Louis- shocked and drunk out of his mind and sprawled out uselessly on the carpet. “I’ll be in bed.” Harry says, quietly.

Louis almost can’t fathom it, curled up on that fucking gorgeous carpet with Harry brushing his teeth in the bathroom-  _ this _ is what HarryandLouis has become, such vicious, shameless, love twisted and watered-down to this etiolated, gasping, thing. They have starved their love; it is choking on nothing right now and so is Louis, stumbling out of their hotel room and into Niall’s.

Niall’s room is empty. The keys to the tour bus are in Louis’ pockets and, heartbreak eclipsing the shadows of his mind- the realisations one has in the dark,  _ this is not the end _ being a delicious lie - he slips out of the hotel, opening up the dark tour bus. 

Zayn, Louis remembers, used to like sleeping on the tour bus with him. The others had never understood- bunks were well and good, but what about real beds?  _ It’s nice to have a home base _ , Zayn had told him, something faltering and diminishing stealing across his face, and maybe Louis should have known.

With that in mind, he opens Twitter, composes a drunken tweet. He doesn’t post it- he has enough foresight to save it for the morning, when he can re-evaluate. He falls into a fitful sleep instead, mouth aching with the afterthought of Harry’s and the taste of alcohol.

Harry doesn’t acknowledge him at all the next day. (Louis stops talking.)

His third attempt is a half-hearted, jubilant, shot in the dark. They’re in bed after another concert, bodies still thrilling from the high of the crowd. They’re feet away from each other and wrapped in steely and impersonal hotel sheets. Louis wants to kiss his boyfriend, so he does, turning and sliding his head onto Harry’s bicep and seeking Harry’s mouth with his.

Harry’s mouth is slack and cooperative for a brief few seconds, and desperately, terribly, Louis slides closer, a hand dragging low against Harry’s stomach. Smooth skin stretched taut over muscle, the solidity of Harry. Harry, Louis thinks wryly, is a distractingly uncertain prospect for someone who’s been the most solid person in his life for years.

When Harry pushes him away violently, Louis is almost expecting it.

They lie next to each other, breathing hard. Harry isn’t looking at Louis; he rolls onto his side. The faint gleam of city lights sweeps over them in unwelcome illumination; Louis can see the sloping shape of Harry, the sheets piled in the divot of his waist and the long curves of his legs.   
It’s lying there, terribly awake and shoving a fist into his mouth to stifle any sobs, that Louis realises what perhaps he’d always known, in the end. HarryandLouis are, presumably, over. Five years, at least they’d had that long and it’ll never be enough but _five fucking years_.

(He stops trying.)

(When he wakes up in the morning, it’s April and he’s sick of everything, sick of strobe lights and pulsing sound, sick of not hearing anything for hours after concerts but the crazy wild screams of fans, sick of Harry’s stupidly attractive face and the bewitching charisma he carries around with him like a personal magnetic field, sick of feeling hurt and small all the  _ fucking  _ time. He finds his phone and opens Twitter. This time, he doesn’t set it aside.)

  
  


“What,” Liam says, “The  _ fuck _ did you do.” This is not altogether an uncommon occurrence. 

The silence, terrible and unbroken, is. Louis is  _ sick _ of having to use the adjective ‘terrible’ to encapsulate his experiences every damn  _ day _ , can’t something wonderful happen in the world?

Louis smiles, condescending and defiant. “Well, Liam, I believe it is referred to by the Internet youth as ‘trolling’. Or maybe that's something else, I can’t remember. Regardless, what’s done is done and leagues of Zouis shippers are crying themselves to sleep worldwide, which is, I’d say, a much better use of their tears than crying over  _ Zayn Malik _ .”

“You can’t- fuck, Lou, we’re all hurt, we’re all feeling the same things-”

“No,” Louis says, breathing hard. “No, you’re not. We’re not. It’s not- we’re not the  _ same _ , Liam, don’t you fucking- it’s not- he’d  _ told _ you, you fucking arsehole. He fucking  _ told  _ you beforehand and I didn’t get a word of forewarning. I’m- I  _ was _ his best mate. You don’t- it’s not - we’re not the  _ same _ , Liam.”

“I thought,” Liam says slowly, “He’d told you already. If I’d known he hadn’t, I would have-”

“Oh, you would’ve? Mate, you know full well you would’ve kept it to your fucking self because anything else would be  _ violating Zayn’s trust _ or some shit like that. So fucking pleased to know a secret before anyone else for once.”

“Oi,” Niall objects, standing. “It’s not Liam’s fault.”

“It’s not fucking  _ mine _ either, Jesus.” 

“No one’s saying that, Lou.” Niall says, hands raised. “But the Twitter thing is, sorry to break it to you.”

Louis laughs, wild and savage. “So what? Bet the PR team’s fucking thrilled that it isn’t a goddamn gay scandal for once. Not _ another Wellington _ ,” He mimics Claudia, rolling his eyes. 

Across the room, Harry shrinks into himself, pulling his phone out of his pocket and absorbing himself in it. Probably texting Nick Grimshaw, Louis thinks with astounding bitterness.

“Just- don’t do it again.” Liam says, through his teeth, and Louis storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving one half of a promise he doesn’t intend to fulfill strewn against another Oriental carpet.

(He does it again.)

(The next meeting is less informal, management crowding in and ‘impressing the importance’ upon his ‘young mind’ or some shit like that. He deliberately tunes them out. It’s surprisingly easy to break rules under the excuse you didn’t know they existed.)

(He does it again on May 6th; who the fuck does  _ Naughty Boy  _ think he is, and Zayn’s return tweet is  _ remember when you had a life and stopped making bitchy comments about mine _ . He stares at it for hours, until his eyes burn.)

Harry breaks up with him on May 28th. They’re in New York. Louis knows it’s coming, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

“We had five- five good years, Lou, you know that, and I- you’ll always be my best friend, but-”

“Oh, will I?” Louis mutters, belligerent. It’s sunny, light pouring in through refracted glass and drowning in the little hollows of expression Harry displays, the idle flutter of his pulse and the tearing of his hand through droves of tangled hair. He’s so, so, gorgeous and Louis is so, so, in love with him and they’ve been dissolving for months but this right here is the fracture. 

Harry’s at his best, Louis knows, clear skin and vivid eyes, hair loose and long and lovely, a floral button-down swooping low over the panes of his chest. Louis’ in joggers and a beanie, cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes and head aching. The chill creeps in, freezing his solitary movements and he hates himself, God, he hates the world.

Somewhere outside people are happy, a little girl is singing to herself and when he leaves this room nothing will be the same again.

“Lou- come on, you know I- I love you, I do, just not-”  _ Like that _ , he doesn’t say, but all of a sudden Louis wishes Harry had done it over the phone so he could cover his face and fall apart.

“I can’t lose you, Lou, okay? I-”

“Then  _ don’t _ , then don’t _ fucking _ -” It tears out of him because  _ how _ , because  _ what _ , because how  _ dare _ Harry say  _ I can’t lose you _ like that was ever a fucking choice Louis could ever make, like it wasn’t entirely and always up to  _ him _ .

“It’s not that simple, Lou-”

“Don’t  _ fucking _ call me that.” Louis snaps, breathing hard. His hands spasm at his sides.

Harry’s face falls apart, twisting with shocking savagery. “See, Louis that’s- that’s what I mean, please, let’s not- do this. I can’t- you’re my best friend. Can’t we just-”

And that, Louis thinks with strange and dull satisfaction, is what no one else really sees about Harry, how audacious he can be. The curls, the eyes, the dimples, he gets away with it, and he’s going to get away with it now: asking Louis to stay Harry’s  _ best friend _ , like that was a normal thing an ex could ask you. As if it was that easy. He had the  _ nerve _ to break Louis’ heart and then ask him to stay  _ friends _ , because  _ I can’t lose you _ . Fuck.

“You fucking  _ bastard _ . You- you can’t ever admit that you’re  _ wrong _ , that you’re sorry,  _ fuck _ you.” Louis whispers, and then “I’ll text you. We- fuck. We can stay friends but I need you to  _ stay away from me _ for just- just a bit.”

After Harry’s gone, he calls Zayn. 

Zayn answers at the third ring, sounding a mixture of confused and irritated.

“Louis? Why-”

“Harry broke up with me.” Louis states without preamble, and sinks to his knees with the weight of those words.

A pause. And then: “ _ What _ ? There’s- no, no he wouldn’t-”

“He did.” Louis says, emotionlessly.

Another pause, longer than the first. “Want me to-”

“ _ Yes _ .” Louis says, breaths shuddering, “ _ Yes _ , please, I. Yes.”

  
  


They go out. Zayn and fucking  _ Naughty Boy _ which is, by Louis’ estimation, a capitulation but whatever, he’s heartbroken and young, okay?

Alcohol, lots of it. Blurry faces, red lights, pounding music and warm bodies against his own. Two hours in, Louis tugs Zayn away for a smoke break, and the familiarity of it all sends shivers down his spine. At least, Louis thinks, at least I haven’t lost him completely. Harry, too- he has pieces and parcels of them. The frame is broken in half-glass piers and the oil paint’s smeared recklessly on the canvas, yes, but he has the shreds of it all still.

“He was pulling away. I- I tried at first,” Louis says after a few minutes, nothing but cold and the long furl of smoke and the chilling lights of the city and Zayn beside him. “I stopped after about the third time he refused to fucking kiss me.”

“That doesn’t sound like Harry at all.” Zayn says, words dragging out slow. He inhales a drag of smoke. “Never thought you two would break up.”

“Yeah.” Louis whispers after a moment, eyes stinging, “Me neither.”

To Louis, navigating a post-Harry world is difficult to articulate. He and Zayn make it a habit, those long sleepless nights with the city sprawling unaware beneath their feet and packets of cigs in hand. On Twitter and to the rest of the world, even Niall and Liam and Harry, their feud remains unchanged. Even after the tour picks up again, even after he can no longer find Zayn for a smoke break, Louis goes out, dances until everything spins and hurts and he’s not sure which way is morning. Maybe nothing is; maybe morning will never come, maybe he won't have to look at Paul’s disappointed face when he stumbles in at two, reeking of alcohol and vomit and stale club smoke.

To the boys, Louis is ebulliently, incandescently, happy. This is a decision manifested out of spite and self-preservation. Harry can’t  _ know _ \- or, no. Harry  _ did _ this,  _ he _ fucking broke Louis’ heart, he does not deserve to see the shards and remains of it, pulverized and ground against desolate ground. Harry will not witness an ounce of Louis’ pain, and so Louis puts on a performance, the grandest prank of all, a lie to end all lies: that he is not heartbroken. 

He gives himself a few public days to stew, to be convincing, and then blooms loud and louder, ragging on the security and staging water-fights with Liam, pranking Paul over and over and over again. “The Tommo’s  _ back _ ,” Niall says approvingly after he suggests they go clubbing, after he jumps on Liam’s back with two bottles of water, after he fills Niall’s toothpaste with glue.

With Harry, it’s different. He relishes in every confused look, in every longing gaze, because he deserves a few weeks before he allows them to be “friends” again. (He needs Harry, too, is the thing. They can be friends, as long as Louis keeps his vulnerable bits sheathed away, as long as he keeps his guard  _ up _ and his defenses prepped, as long as every last bit of his bruised, tormented, heart is accounted for.)

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Louis laughs loud enough for Harry, on the other side of the room, to hear. “I thought you would be- more, I dunno, heartbroken.” Liam says, looking worried. “Mate, I’d worry about yourself if I were you- the last show had you a  _ tad _ pitchy, eh?” Louis shoots back, and it’s forgotten.

Outside of One Direction, it’s different. He goes out alone, when the boys are sleeping, and fucks everything that moves, regardless of gender. He’s supposed to be single, anyway, what with the “Elounor breakup”, and management loves the grainy pap pics of him and the “mystery blonde” of the week. “Keep up the good work,” Simon praises him, and Louis thinks about the sleepless nights comforting Harry, the  _ she isn’t mine, okay? She means nothing, I’m yours I’m all yours _ he’d had to repeat over and over, how insidious the closet could be. “Ta, mate.” He smiles at Simon, keeping his daggers sheathed. (He’s not going to forget, not now, not ever.)

Everything’s easier when it’s dark and he’s drunk, so he drinks more and more and smokes endlessly. He knows it’s bad for him but he doesn’t care, in a way it drives him to drink more, dance harder, smoke more, knowing that at the end of the day it’s killing him.  _ I’ve been thinking ‘bout death but I hold my breath and I bite my tongue _ , Louis writes in one of his lyric notebooks in June. Another lyric:  _ And all I’m thinking about is not thinking about you / If only I could lose my mind, and maybe I would find a way out / but all I’m thinking about is not thinking about you. _ It’s nothing, he’s nothing.  _ Been chasing temporary highs and strangers, and I’m tired. I don’t know how emptiness can be this heavy / And your absence be so unavoidable /Funny how the hurt is never equal / When it all falls. _ Louis is  _ fine _ .

He eases back into Harry’s life, delicately, and Harry looks overjoyed every time Louis smiles at him, makes him tea, curls into his side. They start meeting in the hallway- it’s exquisite happenstance, built of Louis’ tea-habit and Harry’s insomnia, but they end up meeting in the hallway every single night. It’s genuine, it  _ is _ , because this is Harry and Louis loves him more than anything in the world, but it’s also the Harry that broke his heart, the Harry he wasn’t enough for. When he looks at Harry, he can’t  _ breathe _ sometimes under the brunt of it all, the curly-haired big-eyed sweetheart from 2011 and the rakish heartbreaker all superimposed onto one figure, lean and tattooed and gorgeous. There’s- an Incident once, in the hallway, and for a while Louis stops coming, but they work it out.

_ Friends _ , Louis tells himself,  _ friends _ .  _ Just don’t get your heart broken again, don’t let him.  _

“Make music.” Zayn tells him after Louis calls him for the fiftieth time to rant about what a _fucking asshole_ Harry is and how attractive his shoulders are, and so he does. He writes, he fills notebooks with lyrics. Most of them are shit, but some have potential. He ends up recording an EP- five songs that are _good:_[ _Swap Places_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HeZVOPDeRYQ) , [_In My Blood_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36tggrpRoTI) (that one had been written with Ed in the studio, and it’s mostly his voice with background vocals by Louis), [_Thinking About_ ,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZLPy3Fea2E) [_Wicked Game_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y58r5vpIU1c) _,_ and [_Hurt Any Less_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDLg5Zt3q6o). (He hides the CD in his bag and when they get off tour, he hides it somewhere in his house. He knows, even then, that he’ll probably never release them. They’re too _intimate_.)

He fucks a girl named Briana Jungwirth towards the end of tour, and when she calls him a month later telling him she’s pregnant with his baby, his first reaction is-

He’s ashamed to admit it later, because he adores Freddie now, but his first reaction is spiteful glee, because he’d one-upped Harry and how would it  _ feel _ , to know that Louis was definitely, 100%, over him? Then, of course, it’s excitement, fear, happiness, but he’ll never forget the initial malice.

He gathers the boys together, sits them down, and tells them all at once: “I’m having a baby. I- Briana’s pregnant.”

Liam looks concerned, and then overjoyed. Niall flicks several glances at Harry, bites his lip, and then releases a yell of Irish jubilation. 

Harry freezes, face unmoving and utterly still for a few moments. Louis feels the beat of blood, the pulse juddering at the cord of his neck, feels utterly alive.  _ How do you like it, then _ ?

“Congratulations, Lou.” Harry says after the boys have yelled and hugged him and danced. He looks soft and lovely, hair pulled back into a bun and shoulders capped in a clinging navy henley. “I mean it. You’re- you’ll be such a great father.”

“Thanks, Hazza.” Louis says back, equally soft. Harry’s face brightens slightly at the nickname. 

“Love you, you know.” Harry says quietly.  _ No, you don’t _ , Louis wants to scream,  _ if you’d loved me you wouldn’t’ve- _ but that’s too much. “I know.” Louis says after a moment. “I- you know I-” He can’t say, can’t say  _ I love you too  _ even though it’s true, it’s so true it burns.

“Yeah.” Harry whispers, tucking his head into the curve of Louis’ neck for a brief second. “I know.”

* * *

2017

* * *

“No, it's a  _ film _ , not a movie, Freddie. You go to the  _ cinema _ to see the  _ film _ , not the theatre to see the movie, okay?” 

The doorbell rings, Clifford barks, and Louis freezes. He slips the phone in the crook of his neck and runs down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Braces himself, although it’s not much use. When is he ever  _ ready _ for Harry Styles.

“Yeah, I know your mum calls it a movie. But she’s  _ American _ , Freddie. What do we call Americans?” Louis says into the mouthpiece, twisting the knob. He averts his eyes from the tableau before him, ushering Harry in and closing the door behind him. He’s going to have to look  _ eventually _ , but not while he’s talking to  _ Freddie _ .

“ _ Young stars _ ,” Freddie lisps adorably, and Louis laughs in spite of himself, tucking a smile into the phone. “Young  _ upstarts _ , not stars. Repeat after me: British people are cooler.”

“Bwitish peepo are coower.” Freddie repeats obediently, and Louis grins. “There you go, love. Next time your mum tells you to call it a movie, tell her that you’re speaking the mother tongue.”

Freddie giggles, then says “ _ mum says I have to go, daddy _ ” and Louis bites his lip, careful. The amount of time he gets with Freddie has always been- a touchy subject. He understands, really, he does, that Briana should get custody because she’s the mother, and that with his schedule it’s not really viable for him, anyway. But Freddie’s his  _ son _ , and he’d like to have more than carefully regulated phone calls.

“Bye then, love.” Louis says into the mouthpiece, smiling at Freddie’s enthusiastic  _ byyyye Daddy! _ He slides the phone into his back pocket, running a hand through his hair and glancing at Harry.

He looks gorgeous, short curling hair and shy smile, dressed in skinny jeans and a transparent blouse, the swallows stark against his skin. Louis immediately wants to rescind all “ _ why don’t you stay with me _ ” offers and the like; he couldn’t possibly have been in his right mind.  _ Friends, best friends _ . 

“Sorry,” Louis says, biting his lip. “I didn’t mean to be on the phone when you came.”

“It’s fine, I’m in early. How’s Freddie?” Harry asks, carefully. They’re always delicate around the subject of Freddie. Harry’s met him before, of course, not that Freddie can remember, but.

“Briana’s been teaching him  _ Americanisms _ ,” Louis says, wrinkling his nose. “The horror.” Harry deadpans, slow and low and everything Louis’ missed.

“Mm, quite. Do you want me to carry your bags, or?”

“Sure.” Harry says after a pause, smirking. Honestly, fuck this kid.

Louis eyes the bags. They don’t look that bad. They’re- they’re very tall. They come up to his ribs, and thus Harry’s lower waist. Louis refuses to carry them, regardless.

“Did you forget everything about our relationship?” Louis says, thoughtfully. “I can’t think of another explanation, because _ I _ clearly remember the master-slave dynamic.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, I remember. Your point being?” 

“My  _ point _ , H, is that you should’ve  _ known _ that me asking if you’d like me to carry your bags was a rhetorical question.” Louis tosses back, kicking at one of the bags disgustedly. “Fuck, what’d you bring, steel thermoses of specialty hair shampoo?”

“Not sure that’s what a rhetorical question is.” Harry says, deflecting.

“You  _ did _ , didn’t you.” Louis says delightedly, diving in on the bags. “Omigod, was that article in the  _ Hollywood Reporter _ true? Are you dyeing your grays? The people have a right to  _ know  _ these things, Mr. Styles.”

“I’m not  _ dyeing my hair- _ ” Harry says, indignantly, and then he spots Louis examining the first item from his suitcase, which happens to be a tin of hair pomade. It looks expensive and smells good. Louis can still make fun of him for it.

“ _ Amber Honey Hair Balm _ \- this is where the millions go then, Haz? You do realise that girls across America would be devastated to know that your whole-” Louis makes a vague gesture, twisting out of the way as Harry makes a grab for it, “ _ Thing _ is false?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all a wig, I’m secretly balding-” Harry rolls his eyes, big hands on Louis’ hips,  _ shit _ -

“With that hairline, your dream’ll be coming true soon enough, Dwayne Johnson.” In 2016, Louis remembers, Harry had called him, drunk at four a.m. to express incoherent panic about some nightmare he’d had the other day, in which all of his hair had fallen out.

“I should never have told you about that,” Harry mutters, and then, as if that’ll make it better, “And Dwayne Johnson shaves his hair.”

Louis raises his brows. “Mate, have you seen his scalp?” He succeeds in wresting the pomade from Harry and stuffs it in his hoodie pocket, twisting away from Harry’s second attempt. 

“No, seriously, I read it in  _ Vanity Fair _ \- never mind.” Harry says immediately, but Louis  _ heard _ it.

“Reading about The Rock, eh? Got a little fan-crush, ‘ave you?” Louis says, gleefully. He utilizes Harry’s moment of distraction to dive back into the bags, unearthing several expensive pairs of sunglasses and a silk scarf. “You filthy hipster,” Louis wheezes, collapsing on the floor and sliding the ugliest pair of sunglasses onto his nose.  _ Honestly _ , it’s like Harry’s  _ trying _ to be made fun of.

He scoots on his arse backwards, wriggling expertly out of Harry’s hands and tying the silk scarf around his neck. “You-” Harry says despairingly, but Louis’ already running up the stairs, laughing into his hand and turning to pose by the bannister.

“What do you think? Worthy of Anna Wintour?” Louis drawls, imitating Harry’s voice.

“You look more like one of the singers in that stupid boyband.” Harry says, collapsing on the floor and throwing his arm over his eyes.

“I get that a lot.” Louis says, sliding down the banister and collapsing on top of Harry. He waits, expectantly, and after a moment of silent intimidation, Harry deigns to let out a deadpanned “ _ oof _ ”. “Good lad,” Louis says, slumping down, his head on the taut plane of muscle between Harry’s shoulder-blades. 

It’s nice, for a moment, Harry familiar under him, all muscle and a faint whiff of airports and Tom Ford cologne, Anne’s laundry detergent and the salt-smell of his skin. Their bodies still fit together, Louis instinctively knowing how to fit himself into the hollows and arches of Harry’s body, Harry obligingly relaxing just enough for Louis to be comfortable.

Then Harry ruins it by muttering something about Louis’ ego being like a childhood pet into the tiles. Louis sighs, beleaguered, and rolls over, thighs slotting familiarly around Harry’s waist. His first tickle isn’t subtle, and neither is the second, but he gets the job done. Harry is wriggling underneath him before long, and if it sparks a slow, longing, curl of yearning low in his stomach, he’ll never admit it.

“So,” Louis says after they’ve finished the pseudo-tickle fight (of which Louis was, obviously, the victor). “So.” Harry echoes, eyes shining green.

“God, stop that.” Louis says, wrinkling his nose and pushing Harry’s face away with an index finger. “Stop what?” Harry says, muffled. “‘S just m’face.”

“ _ Exactly _ .” Louis says with asperity, and shushes Harry when he tries to protest. “Okay, anyway, so. When’s your interview with Grimshaw?”

“May 12th.” Harry says, patiently. 

“ _ Excellent _ , we’ve some time yet. Always did wonder what it’d be like to have a live-in housekeeper.”

“ _ Hey _ ,” Harry says, pouting, and Louis has to fight a grin.

“Which brings us to my next point: what’s for dinner?” Louis asks, cheerily.

“I- you’re the  _ host _ . That means you’re supposed to-”

“You see, your mouth is moving, but- it’s the strangest thing, mind - all I’m hearing is  _ my cooking has gotten significantly worse and I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of my ex-boyfriend _ .” The best way to avoid a subject is to casually address it as often as you can, Louis’ learned.

There’s a long pause, during which Harry visibly struggles with the English language. Louis watches, brows raised.

“I can do fajitas if you’ve got the right ingredients.” Harry says after a while, resigned. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, watching Harry’s mouth move absently, “About that.”

“I actually must’ve been out of my mind to invite him, Z.” Louis hisses into his phone much later, Harry asleep in the guest room and the makeshift fajitas cleared away.

“I  _ did _ tell you…” Zayn drawls, laughing slightly.

“Stop being so smug. Fine, you’re right, whatever. Now tell me how to get him out of my house.”

There’s a pause, and then Zayn asks him: “What exactly are you so afraid of, Lou?”

Louis goes silent. The house, sprawling and far too big for him, spreads out around his watchful eyes. The night spills in through the window-glass nonchalantly, slinking around tables and curling in Louis’ lap. Cliff’s curled up, snoring by his feet.

“I read that thing you said about him, by the way.” Louis says instead of answering a question they both know the answer to. “ _ I never really talked to Harry _ . Really, Z?”

Zayn snorts. 

“I mean,” Louis says after Zayn’s been silent for a full minute, “You might not’ve been as close with him as you were with me, but you were still  _ close _ . You-  _ really _ ?”

Zayn laughs sharply. “I may not have been there when he broke your heart, but I was there to watch the aftermath. If you think I’m about to tell  _ Vanity Fair _ all about how close and buddy-buddy we were, you’re out of your mind.”

“Him being a dick to me and breaking my heart or whatever doesn’t cancel out your five years of friendship.” Louis says, cuttingly.

“Yeah. It does.” Zayn says, misbegotten fierceness thickening his words into something almost guttural, and Louis has to blink back the wetness in his eyes. If he hadn’t called Zayn, he still wonders, what would their friendship be like, now?

“Have you listened to his album?” Louis asks, changing the subject. 

“Why,” Zayn says, dryly, “You can’t possibly be talking about the highly-anticipated as of yet unreleased album of Mr. H Styles, could you?”

“Fuck off,” Louis scoffs.

Another pause. “Yeah.” Louis doesn’t question how- in this industry, nothing is really a secret after a few drinks.

“ _ Two Ghosts _ was- fuck.” Louis whispers. “I- just. He makes me so mad, you know? Like, I’m still best friends with him and I’m still in love with him and I flirt with him like it doesn’t matter or whatever, but sometimes I look at him and I want to- sometimes I look at him and I can’t-” He stops, the faint watery aftertaste of a sob clawing its way out of his throat. Breathes.

“ _ Sweet Creature _ was about you, too.” Zayn says, helpfully.

“Wow, Zayn, I couldn’t have possibly guessed.” Louis says, irritably.

“Pretty sure the one about New York was about you, too. And the hallway one?”

_ End up meeting in the hallway every single night, and there’s nothing we can do about it _ . Harry’s words, stark and sung with wrenching intensity, make it sound so sordid, like they were- but then Louis remembers, stark and permissive, the Incident. 

That one night they’d met in the hallway and Harry had dug a hand into his hair and kissed him. He’d pushed Harry aside after the first few minutes, broken and desperately alive, heart pounding with renewed vigor.  _ You left me in the hallway _ , Harry sings, and  _ fuck _ him. That song makes him furious, too- the way Harry  _ victimizes _ himself, like he wasn’t the one to break them.  _ Maybe we’ll work it out _ makes him beyond furious; Harry had no  _ right _ to sound so devastated.

He’d had to participate in several cathartic paintball courses beforehand in order to smile at Harry on FaceTime and compliment him on the album- it’s beautiful and wrenching and bristling with originality, of course it is, but also, as Louis can’t help feeling, lies. Or twisting of the truth, the facts clouded with false emotion so as to render them unrecognizable. Like Harry was “ _ hoping you’ll come around _ ”, like “ _ even my phone misses your call, by the way _ ” was something you could just say about the boy you dumped, after those months where Louis hadn’t called him once. (They’re better about that, now, try to text each other and call, but.)

“The one about the dining tables and wanking was probably about you, too.” Zayn says, after Louis’ telling silence.

“I  _ know _ that, Zayn. What’s your  _ point _ .”

“My point is,” Zayn sighs, “He’s been writing these songs about you. You’ve written songs about him- don’t lie, I know you still haven’t shown anyone that EP. I’m not sure ‘just friends’ is a label that’s working for you.”

“Yes,” Louis hisses, “Which is why I need him out of my house, before I go insane.”

“What would the worst-case-scenario be, Lou?” Zayn asks him.

Louis lets out a dry laugh, collapsing on the couch. It’s comfortable and wonderful and he ordered it from the cheapest possible home catalogue, because whatever  _ Harry _ says, not everything had to be expensive. “You know what it is.”

“You let him in, and you stop being ‘just friends’.” Zayn summarises.

“And he breaks my heart,  _ again _ .” Louis fills in, raking a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ve known him for almost a decade, Z, and what he did back then- I still get angry if I think about it too long, you know that. Anyone could’ve seen it a mile away and I was blindsided, still. He never fucking apologised, even, the arsehole. If he can do that to  _ me _ \- look. I love him, you know I do, but I can’t-”

He pauses, flushing. “And  _ he _ broke up with  _ me _ me, Z, he doesn’t- we’re not like that.”

“Mm-hmm.” Zayn hums judgmentally.

“Shut the fuck up.” Louis mutters, and hangs up.

  
  


Predictably, things proceed and Harry remains in his house with his stupid sunglasses and his tasteless scarves. “You see,” Louis says conversationally, after he’s located a few pots and pans and crashed them together like cymbals to wake Harry up, “Sometimes there are things that are good. And sometimes there are things that look good if you squint right. Your taste in scarves is just-  _ bad _ .”

“What,” Harry groans, turning over and curling in his bedsheets like a slug presented with salt.

“I said, WAKE THE FUCK UP, HAZZA!” Louis yells, banging the pots and pans. The noise shatters through the house, and he mentally apologizes to the neighbors, not that they’re not used to it.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ ,” Harry groans, clawing a tattooed forearm through the sheets. “I could’ve just stayed at Nick’s, you know.”

“Ah, but then you’d miss the view of  _ this _ glorious arse.” Louis sighs, posing briefly. He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes linger on the swell of his bum, stroking almost palpably over the curve, exposed in the thin fabric of his joggers.

“That’s not a fuckin’ free pass to ogle me, mate.” Louis complains, rolling his eyes and jumping onto his prone torso. Harry seizes, coughing and wriggling, coughing out: “Nick’s is sounding better and better.”

Louis sighs briefly. “Stop being a drama queen, Harold, we both know you’d never leave me. Well, except for that one obvious and glaring exception.” (If he’s going to be spending this amount of time with Harry, it has to be easy. Thus, Rule #1:  _ don’t be awkward about It, refer to it casually, pretend that you didn’t once go into a self-destructive spiral after he dumped you, because you’re over it. You’re so, so, Over It. _ )

Harry coughs out a pained laugh. Louis snatches the sheets away from his face, leaning in slowly, letting his eyes go soft and pleading and gentle, long lashes downcast the way he knows Harry likes. Harry’s breaths stutter, and  _ there _ he goes. (Even if Harry stopped loving him, he’s never stopped being attracted to him, and Louis takes full and shameless advantage of it. It’s probably not healthy, flirting with your ex-boyfriend in a room full of ghosts. He doesn’t care.)

“Hazza,” Louis says, pleading and pretty, just for him, and Harry’s eyes go wide, his mouth parting. Louis leans in. “Make me breakfast.” He finishes in normal tones, springing away gleefully and leaning away again, rolling off the bed with an  _ oof _ .

Harry slumps against the pillows, an arm over his face, breathing harshly. “Christ, Lou.”

Louis waits.

“ _ Fine _ ,” Harry drawls after several long moments of silence. “Jesus, are you still that shit at cooking?” There’s a special way Harry pronounces  _ shit _ , all posh with a crisp ‘T’ sound, his mouth handling the word with delicacy.

“Mate,” Louis sighs, because that’s another thing he has to remember to do-  _ mate _ and  _ Haz _ instead of  _ baby _ and  _ sunshine _ , “You have no idea.”

Time passes, in fits and starts, Harry slotting into his life as easily as he left it. He begrudgingly cooks their suppers and feeds Clifford, and in return, Louis lets him cuddle in behind him when they watch  _ Grease _ reruns. He’ll be leaving in a few months. Louis tries not to be bitter.

It’s all terribly domestic, interspersed with frantic phone calls to Zayn and relocations of the CD containing his EP over and over again, in increasingly secure hiding spots, because  _ what if _ Harry found it.

“But like,” Louis tries to argue as Harry drops on the couch easily, sliding his big palms under Louis and tugging him half into Harry’s lap, “While she technically changed herself, she still made him work for it- and he was willing to change himself first, so it’s  _ not _ really sexist-” He pauses as Harry noses his neck, mouth open over it like he’s thinking about biting down. His nose is cold, his mouth hot. Everything about this, Harry’s palms on his hips, his mouth on Louis’ neck and his arse snug in Harry’s lap- it screams  _ danger _ , screams of times better left forgotten.

“Better not be thinking about leaving a love-bite, Casanova.” Louis says, deflecting.

Harry chuckles, low and skittering along Louis’ spine. “Wouldn’t be the first time, sweetheart.”

It’s things like this that  _ get _ to Louis, which is stupid. He was the one who started this whole-  _ thing _ , instigated the flirting because it was his most effective technique against Harry. He can’t really be upset when Harry flirts back. Louis imagines if he stopped flirting, Harry would eventually stop as well, but- and this, really, is the stupidest part - there’s something about winking and teasing Harry about his unhealthy fixation with Louis’ arse that makes it easier to pretend this isn’t temporary, that Harry didn’t unabashedly break his heart two years ago.

“Yeah, but  _ The Sun _ ’ll have a field day speculating about Bri or El or shit, even Dani-”

“Danielle was  _ ages _ ago,” Harry interjects, sounding irritated. Louis suppresses the smile; he knows what  _ gets _ to Harry, too, and a big one is other people claiming Louis, which is almost as stupid. Louis doesn’t belong to Harry, it’s not  _ right _ and Harry  _ knows _ that, but he’s never kept it a secret. It was part of why Eleanor got to him so much; seeing Louis hand-in-hand with someone else.

“What, like relevancy and fact-checking are things  _ The Sun _ prides itself on? Honestly, Harry, you’re not sixteen anymore.”

“Many,” Harry says gravely, “Have inquired about the secret to my youthful good looks. The truth is far more sinister-”

“I’m going to cut you off there,” Louis cuts in, pressing a hand to Harry’s mouth. “Or we’ll be here all night. I’ve not fallen victim to one of your stories yet, and I shan’t ever.”

(It’s a blatant lie; before Everything, Louis could sit there for hours and watch Harry tell stories- slow, rambling, ones that never seemed to get anywhere and had a million logical inconsistencies. Harry would glance up every few minutes to check that he was still listening, Louis remembers, and whenever he saw Louis watching him he would smile involuntarily, ducking his head down bashfully and entirely losing his train of thought, picking up the “story” at a completely different point. They could spend entire afternoons like that, slow and golden and intimate, laughter swallowed up between mouths.)

“Mmm,” Harry mumbles against Louis’ skin and then bites down, worrying the thin skin of his neck between Harry’s teeth, absurdly gentle. Louis gasps, the shock and brief glancing pain, the nerves thrilling down his spine. Involuntarily, he arches into Harry, arse grinding into Harry’s crotch, and Harry lets out a low, pained, sound.

“Lou,” Harry sighs, a hand sliding under his shirt and over his hammering heartbeat. A memory sways, held at the crux of his mind: drunken nights, Harry pawing at him desperately, almost getting caught. Another memory, dim and tainted with the heartbreak that claws its spidering fingers around everything from those times, thick and besotted with shrouding sadness: Harry, pushing Louis away, pain striking his tailbone,  _ I said  _ no _ , Louis _ . 

It’s like a physical slap to the face; all of a sudden, Louis can’t breathe, he tears himself out of Harry’s arms, stumbling to his feet. He sways, a little punch-drunk, a little heart-broken. He doesn’t recognize himself when he says, low, “I’m going to bed.”

There’s a pause, and Harry’s face is unmoving. Louis waits one more second before turning and fleeing, taking the steps two at a time. “But you didn’t eat dinner,” Harry calls after him, and Louis throws up an absent V.

“Fuck,” he breathes when he’s properly in his room, door locked and curtains yanked over the wide, eerie, pane of glass in front of his headboard. “Shit.” He wants to call Zayn, but his phone’s downstairs. May 12th, he reminds himself. It’s only about two weeks away, he’s fine. This is fine.

He’s scrambling for his notebook before he can think about it, fingers tearing at the thin pages and college-ruled paper. It’s a cheap notebook, big and leafy and spreading just so across the plinth of his palms. He finds a ballpoint stream across his desk and plucks it up, hands shaking from how badly he needs this.

_ I never needed you like I do right now _ , Louis writes, wiping furiously at wet eyes, gasping.  _ I never hated you like I do right now/Cause all you ever do is make me cry _ . He pauses after a moment, contemplating. It’s a bit more vulnerable than anything he’d normally do, and he’d need to sing it with someone else. Zayn, maybe, but he isn’t ready to show it to someone else. He scribbles several more snatches of lyrics:  _ So I’ll see you in the morning/I can’t watch you walk out _ ;  _ Couldn’t hear the thunder/But I heard your heart race. _

He sets it aside when he’s done, stuffing it back on his shelf. His room is simultaneously both spartan and cluttered; the walls are clean and bare, the furnishings subtle and sparse, but his things fill surfaces, shelves bristling with piano books and CDs and records and biographies on famous musicians. His clothing is bundled up in haphazard piles in his wardrobe, some spilling out onto the floor. His bed isn’t that big, but it feels massive when he’s alone. 

He should probably tidy.

Instead, he heaves a massive sigh and pulls the latest book, a biography about the Beatles, out. He eyes it, mistrustfully, and cracks it open.

It is, after all, a quite effective sleeping aid.

They don’t talk about it in the morning. Instead, Harry makes him pancakes and whipped cream and hooks his foot around Louis’ ankle, dimpling at him. Louis’ always loved his eyes best in the morning, sleepy clear green and lashes dark with sleep. He smiles back, and it doesn’t feel like a lie.

The next few days pass like that, teetering on the same fine line they’ve always trod, between friendship and that ineffable  _ more _ , between love and heartbreak.  _ Here be dragons _ , and all that. Harry makes them lazy lunches, Louis sitting on the counter and swinging his feet idly. “I wonder if Susan Boyle ever gets tired of being compared to you,” He muses on one of these occasions. “I mean,” He adds, shifting comfortably, “Must be hard to be  _ Susan Boyle _ and like,” Louis makes a vague gesture, “Be compared to  _ Harry Styles _ of all people. Be pretty insulting, like.” Harry makes a protesting noise, tossing a blueberry at Louis- Louis doesn’t even  _ know _ where he got blueberries, he doesn’t remember a grocery run - which, of course, starts a food fight. Louis can’t let insubordination like that stand.

“I just think you’re wasting your potential.” Louis says another day, munching idly at a carrot stick. Harry has tricked him into vegetable consumption. Louis is very aware of this. “Like, you could’ve joined the circus and become the world’s most mediocre, not-very-funny juggler, and yet you chose to become a world-renowned millionaire singer? Who’s making the decisions under the curls, huh?”

“My juggling is not  _ mediocre _ .” Harry says, sighing and replacing the carrots with apple slices slathered in peanut butter. Louis holds one aloft, eyeing in with vague suspicion. He likes apples, who doesn’t, but peanut butter is iffy. He has very particular taste in peanut butter.

“You can do three, big fucking deal.” Louis rolls his eyes, nibbing tentatively at a corner of the apple. “I once saw someone who could do eight.” It’s a lie, and he’s pretty sure Harry knows it, but Harry doesn’t call him out on it. His eyes are glowing, reluctantly fond.

“So what you’re saying,” Harry says slowly, “Is that I’m not good at juggling, but I should have become a juggler.”

“Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Louis informs him. The apple and peanut butter is surprisingly good, although really, it shouldn’t be a surprise. Harry’s always known his tastes too well, and something diurnal and restless shifts inside of him, threatening to catch fire. Louis ignores it; he’s done it before. 

There’s peanut butter on his fingers, and he licks them clean. Harry’s eyes drop to follow them, tracing dreamily over each individual knuckle, to where they meet his mouth, the lap of his tongue. Louis winks.

“I didn’t know you read Thoreau.” Harry says. His voice is slow, catching, like he’s barely paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. 

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.” Louis says, gently. It’s a half-lie. Harry knows everything about Louis that’s available for him to know, and has guessed most of the rest based on what he already knows. The things he doesn’t know about Louis are things Louis has guarded carefully, protective and unrelenting. 

The corner of Harry’s mouth tips up. He looks so attractive right then, light pouring in glistening thick beams through the skylight and gilding the filigree of his curls, eyes bright and vividly green, light playing on the droplets of water wetting his mouth from the swallow of water he’d taken a minute ago. Louis wants to kiss him- always wants to kiss him, but right now it’s overwhelming. He has to curl his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching up, completing the curve naturally and easy as breathing. Nails dig into his palms, hurting. This is fine, he’s fine.

“Are you sure about that, sweetheart?” Harry says, voice low and so quiet, running under the vermouth shiver of the afternoon, chirping bugs and bright-wheat sky. The thread of conversation- juggling, Thoreau, a challenge - it’s been snipped and discarded or it remains still and trembling, whatever, it doesn’t matter. They’ve both neglected it long enough. 

What matters is something rarer: the way Harry’s looking at him right now, drinking in every inch of him, half-smiling and gentle. The thread of understanding that passes between them: a quiet ravine of contentment, drowsy and curious. It’s tender, so achingly tender Louis has to bite at his lip to keep a soft noise from slipping out. This, he knows, is exactly what he’s supposed to be avoiding. This, right here, is the end in a beginning.

As if it doesn’t matter much to him, Louis reaches out his hand, slipping his fingers to curl around Harry’s. It’s natural and effortless, the easy way their hands fit together, Harry’s thumb grazing the ribboning pulse, painfully gentle.

_ This is the worst thing _ , Louis thinks dizzily,  _ the best thing _ .  _ This is where it falls apart. _

He doesn’t move. They stay there, twilit and shrouded in gauzy afternoon shadows, for a while.

Harry goes to the interview all dressed up in a sheer button-down and slacks. Louis sniffs tearfully and pretends to be his mother, even going to the trouble of ordering a plastic, shiny, lunch-box and making a lazy peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It’s worth it to see Harry’s disbelieving laugh when Louis presses it into his hands, sniffling: “My little boy all grown up, launching his first solo album and making me proud. Have a good interview, munchkin.”

Harry gets this look in his eye- hazy and devoted, things not worth assigning nomenclature to shifting in the shadows of his irises. It’s a look he’s well familiar with, and he moves instinctively forward, arching onto his tiptoes and pressing a smacking kiss to Harry’s cheek, just to clear the glassy fog in his eyes.

“Can’t believe you did all this, just for me, Lou.” Harry murmurs into the shell of his ear, and it  _ would _ be a sufficient retort except for how sincere he’s being. Louis feels warm all over, hot syrup sliding under his skin, tectonic plates moving and shifting. 

“Stop, you’re going to make me cry,” Louis manages, moving backwards too fast to be normal.  _ All you ever do is make me cry _ , the unfinished song somewhere in Louis’ drawer reads, and it’s half-true the same way it’s half-written: if Louis had enough drive, if he excised Harry from his life or let him completely back in, it would be fully true.

“Love you, Lou.” Harry sings off-key, skipping to the car. Louis leans against the half-frame of the door, not noticing the shifts of movements in the trees, the wind, the branches. Leaves whisper like sheaves of paper, rushing thickly against each other. 

The boy in front of him, starting the car and driving smoothly away from him, is probably going to break his heart again. He already has. Louis’ been punishing him for it for two years now- implicitly, sweetly, doing things Harry wouldn’t ordinarily let him get away with, taking liberties that Harry allows because  _ Harry _ feels guilty. It makes him feel panicky, scared, like he’s a small child raging uselessly at the world for not being kind enough.  _ I can’t make you love me, _ Louis thinks, _ I can’t make you want me _ . Except Harry does love him, and Harry does  _ want _ him, to some extent, just. Not in the way he used to.

Clifford barks at him when he gets back in, and Louis sighs, locating his leash and clipping it on. “You’ll always love me, at least.” Louis says balefully, slipping into jeans and a beanie.

“Woof,” Clifford confirms. He’s excellent at barking at convenient times, sometimes Louis wonders if he understands human interactions.

“Glad that’s settled, lad.” Louis murmurs, bending to scratch at the thick ruff of fur at Clifford’s nape. The door clicks shut definitively when he leaves, and he doesn’t bother thinking about why, exactly, he doesn’t want to be in the house when Harry’s gone.

  
  


“The thing is,” Louis tells Zayn, “The thing is, that I was too busy, like. Trying not to let my guard down and shit that I didn’t think about what I would do when he left. And he’s leaving in like, a few days. And I-”

He has to close his eyes, breathing hard. “It just gets. A lot, sometimes.”

“Lou,” Zayn sighs, and honestly. Zayn has a perfect lovey-dovey relationship with Gigi fucking Hadid and they’re probably going to get married and have a million babies who’ll eventually be the most gorgeous children in the world; he doesn’t get to sound this judgemental.

“I’m meant to be heading to London today,” Zayn offers. “I can fly in a few hours early, we could make a night of it.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, eyes prickling. He  _ hates _ that he cries so much, hates that he has to rely on Zayn so much just to cope with it all. 

_ Watched your interview _ , Louis texts Harry, biting absently on a loose flag of skin around his thumbnail, tongue swiping across the lunulae.  _ Grimmy delights, as ever.  _

_ Brat _ , Harry sends back, and then, a moment later,  _ what about me _ . Louis huffs a laugh. And he’s supposed to be the needy one.

_ What’s there to say, aside from snarky commentary about your choice in blouses? _

_ :( _

_ I appreciated your concise, eloquent, and informative answers _

_ Why are you like this _

_ “It’s not on me, sister” like who even are you _

_ Ugh. _

Louis pauses, fumbling with the neat square of the phone. Clifford pulls at his leash, and obligingly, he walks faster. The dog park is full of young mothers and fathers with their new puppies; not many people recognize him when he takes Clifford for walks. It’s cold, it is, chill goosing his arms under his jacket 

_ btw I’m going out tonight _

Louis can see that Harry read it, can almost picture Harry staring at it absently, maybe drumming his fingers on a table. He’s never bitten his nails like Louis does, maybe because he doesn’t want to ruin the polish.  _ That _ reminds Louis of when Harry was shyer, more tentative with the things he knew he loved, when Louis had to go out to Tesco’s, buy nail polish, and paint Harry’s nails, his motions practiced and easy from four sisters, in order for Harry to admit he liked it. 

Even then, he would only wear it when they were alone, or sometimes with the boys.  _ You’re beautiful, beautiful _ Louis whispered into his hands, pressing kisses onto the nails. Seeing Harry blithe and gorgeous in woman’s clothes and colorful nails lights something deep in him, a mingled ache of pride and sadness. 

Sometimes, Louis wonders if Harry misses how they used to be. How Louis could be bitchy to everyone and even Harry, to some extent, but never as much, how even when Louis was pretending to be furious, he could always spare a smile or a cuddle for his boy, his Harry. They’re not like that now- Louis is bitchi _ est _ to Harry, rations out his smiles and affection like grain. Louis has, after all, always known how to protect himself. The only reason he was so hurt by what Harry did was because he’d been so in love with him he couldn’t see straight, only blurring rosy shadows of want and tenderness. Even when Harry was breaking his heart, his vision had been disfigured by disbelief. 

But then, Louis reasons, Louis always had needed Harry more than Harry needed him, and once Harry could stand on his own it was only logical for Harry to- well.

The phone buzzes; Louis glances down.  _ With who? _

_ you’re not my probationer, _ is what he texts back, biting his lip.  _ And don’t even think about making any ‘daddy’ jokes. _

_ You’re not as distracting as you think you are _ , Harry texts back, and Louis physically flinches back from it, phone falling from his shaking fingers. It’s not even the words, although they do hurt, slightly- it’s the force behind them, the sense that Harry’s not going to let himself be distracted by Louis’ bullshit as he usually is.

Slowly, Louis bends down, fingers slipping along the smooth surface of the phone. Harry’s already texted back:  _ and I just want to make sure you’re going to be safe. _

_ you and i both know that’s not true, and “i just want you to be safe” is literally textbook toxic.  _ There. 

_ i’m not trying to control you, lou. you don’t have to answer me, but i’d like to know why, at least.  _

_ because you’re not entitled to know everything about my life. _

The ‘ _ anymore _ ’ is implicit. Louis knows Harry will register it, the force behind the words. God, he’s so tired. He doesn’t want to  _ fight _ , he really doesn’t, but Harry can’t know about Zayn, because Zayn is the only one who knows about how bad it got for Louis towards the end, Zayn is the one who helped him out of it, and Zayn also hasn’t forgiven Harry for it. If they were to be in the same room, Harry would be both confused by his animosity and angry at Zayn himself- Louis doesn’t think Harry ever quite forgave Zayn for leaving, either. It’s complicated and, quite frankly, he’d like to fucking avoid it.

Harry doesn’t text back after that. Louis knows he’s won, but it’s hollow.

  
  


He gets dressed just as Harry pulls back in the driveway after a day of promo. He’s in his fuck-me jeans and a clingy black tee, hair contrived to look like artfully dishelved. (Louis remembers the end, remembers being so, so skinny that his arse had become almost nonexistent, that he’d had to go down a jean size. His waist had been so thin, his wrists even thinner. His torso had been flat and thin as paper, but the optics of it in a baggy sweater were alright, concealable. He still winces when he looks at the video of him pretending to be a cat, only because of how obvious it is.)

“Congratulations, H.” Louis smiles, trotting down the stairs. He’s supposed to meet Zayn at this club his friend owns. Harry’s eyes flick over him, utterly obvious. 

“For what,” Harry says after a few moments.

Louis raises a brow. “For your… newly released debut album?”

“Oh,” Harry says, gravelly. “Right. Um, thanks.”

“My baby all grown up,” Louis tries to coo, crossing the distance and tweaking one of Harry’s curls, but Harry’s grabbing his wrist before he can do anything else, the little bones held delicately.

“Don’t,” Harry says, closing his eyes like it hurts to look at Louis, “Don’t call me that- don’t call me baby again.”

_ Don’t call me baby again _ . Louis flinches away from him, yanking his wrist from Harry’s grip. They’ve been expertly straddling this fucking  _ fine line _ between friends and something more for years, and crossing it even accidentally is shocking, like cold water on warm, vulnerable, skin.

“Right.” Louis snaps, shrugging on a thin sweater. “Sorry.” He adds, brusque, and tries to breathe properly, navigate the world in a way that will let him feel something else than this endless, leaching,  _ hurt _ . He’s tired of flinching.

“Lou,” Harry says, softly, but Louis ignores him, slipping his keys and wallet into his pocket and twisting the knob, darting out the door and slipping into his car. 

He’s off before Harry gets the chance to say a word.

“Zaynie!” Louis squeals, launching himself at Zayn. Zayn’s well-used to him blithely tossing his body at people, with careless abandon ( _ you need to care about yourself, Lou _ he’d said once, rubbing Louis’ back as he vomited into a toilet, and through the bile Louis had coughed out  _ why should I, when he doesn’t? _ ), and catches him easily.

“I missed your insane godlike face, Malik.” Louis says brightly, pressing a kiss to his cheekbones. They’re in the club Louis can’t remember the name of, a vivid language of strobe lights interwoven with terrible and catchy music. Louis wonders if they ever play any One Direction. Once, they’d been at a club and it had started blaring What Makes You Beautiful. Louis had spit out half of his drink from laughter, practically howling, because it was just so  _ funny _ \- they’d been so young back then, tentative fumbling hands and glossy eyes un-dulled by the jadedness the industry brings to all of them. 

Anyway, it’s dark and throbbing, like they’re in a human heart, arching and grinding to the diastole of primal life, and the smell of sweat and fake-ice fog and alcohol is sharp and vowel-rounded in the air, filling Louis’ nostrils when he breathes in. He doesn’t drink as much these days, only because it reminds him of how bad it’d been back then, how easy it is to spiral back- especially now, with Harry looming and the shadow of him making Louis dizzy all over again.

“Wanna talk about it?” Zayn asks. Louis pulls back, studying his face skeptically. “I’ve literally been calling you at horrendous hours every week to chat your ear off about it. I’d think the one thing you wouldn’t want to do is talk about it.”

“I’ve always got time for you, Lou.” Zayn smiles, smiling in that rare way he saves for Louis.

“No, let’s talk about something- something good. Tell me about Gigi.” Louis says, sliding off Zayn and letting himself move absently to the music.

Zayn tips his head back, thinking. “We’re moving in together,” He says at last, smiling into his shot glass. “It’s- it’s really good. I’m thinking about, maybe, like. Proposing?”

Louis raises his brows, rising up on his tiptoes. “You-  _ really _ ? Fuck, mate, that’s fantastic.”

Zayn sighs briefly, worrying at his lower lip. “It’s- I’m not sure, though, because you know what happened with- with Pez. And I’m not sure if I-”

“You,” Louis says, firmly, “Would make a fantastic husband, or fianc é, or whatever, okay? You and Perrie just weren’t- meant to happen. One failed relationship doesn’t mean you can’t find love again, or whatever.”

Zayn raises one of his perfect eyebrows. “Bit hypocritical there, aren’t you?”

Louis controls the flinch as it makes its way through his body. “That’s different,” He defends himself. “Is it?” Zayn tests.

“It’s  _ different _ because I’m probably not ever going to be over it.” Louis tells the ceiling. “You don’t have- anything going on with Perrie, so.”

Zayn sighs, kissing the side of his forehead briefly. “I wish you didn’t believe that.” 

“It doesn’t matter what I  _ believe _ , it’s the fucking  _ truth _ .” Louis says, sharply, breathing too hard. The cloistered bodies and shining lights, blinding and dim all at once- the atmosphere is too intimate for this conversation, for these words, which were made for shouting over clear air and moorland.

“Harry’s not all that, you know.” Zayn says after a moment, hands rubbing Louis’ back soothingly. “Thousands of teen girls across the world would disagree with you.” Louis says absently, eyes flickering to the compass on his skin. Why, he still wonders, why the  _ fuck _ did he get  _ tattoos _ , why the fuck did Harry want them to if he didn’t mean for them to be permanent.

“Lou. I mean it. Harry’s- he’s charming and sexy and knows you very, very, well and gives in to you ninety-percent of the time, but there are billions of people in the world.”

“And,” Louis says, turning and breathing hard, wild, “I’m never going to fucking find another one for me, okay? I’m sure there are plenty of people I could love, okay, that’s not the problem, it’s.” He pauses for a second, frustrated. There’d been an essay he had read in the New Yorker once (God, he sounds so hipster, but it’d been  _ one _ time, okay) and a line that had struck him in his weakest, most vulnerable, parts:  _ if we want the rewards of being loved, we must submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known _ . He had submitted to that ordeal with Harry, they had known each other beyond intimacy, beyond any mortal ideal of closeness, and it hadn’t been an ordeal, it had been called ‘love’. 

To bare himself to a stranger all over again, to let someone else see the parts of him he’s ashamed of and the parts that he’s proud of- the thought  _ is _ mortifying. 

He has four best friends and siblings galore, he has millions of fans worldwide and more money than he knows what to do with, not being able to have Harry is a small thing in comparison. Besides, sometimes he thinks of it as a sort of exchange: he gets everything, everything but the one thing he wants most. It sounds silly and melodramatic and terribly fair when he articulates it.

“It’s?” Zayn prompts.

“He knows me so well,” Louis whispers, turning his face into Zayn’s arm. “I don’t want to let anyone else know me that well, ever again. Just,” He pauses to laugh, corrosive and acidic in the length of pharynx, “Just look what happened last time.”

  
  


He’s tipsy when he gets home. Zayn drives him, because out of the two of them, he’s the more reliable driver. Louis could probably make it, but when he’s tipsy his driving is even worse.

“Don’t come in,” Louis has enough sense to say. “You can’t- can’t let Harry see you.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, teeth sweeping over his lower lip. “Why, scared I’ll beat him up for being such an arse?”

“Yeah, exactly. A big manly Zayn, you are. My hero.” Louis coos mockingly, patting Zayn’s forearm and leaning in briefly to kiss his cheek. He hops out of the car, sighs, and says “You can drive my car back to your house, drop it off whenever. Just text me before, in case Harry’s here, ‘kay?”

“Yep.” Zayn says, hands fidgeting on the steering wheel like he’s impatient to leave. It makes Louis want to drag this out even longer, but then there’s more chance of Harry seeing.

“Bye, my dearest love!” Louis shouts crazily, and Zayn laughs, already driving away.

Louis watches him go for a few seconds more before turning and trotting up the steps. He’d been grinding on a random guy in the club, and there’s unfamiliar sweat all over him. Harry will probably be able to tell, and the thought brings a tired smile to his face, because one of the things he’s never been able to resist is making Harry jealous.

It’s quiet inside, the silence abrupt and jarring, the air alive and pricklingly tender. The lights are dim, and Louis hears Harry’s voice, murmuring something.

Louis is tipsy but sobering fast. He makes his way to the living room, only stumbling twice, and Harry’s on the phone. He’s leaning against the dining table, lean and limber and silhouetted perfectly in the angled shadows.

“Yeah, I know, Ken.” Harry’s saying, slightly annoyed. “No, it’s not. Like that.”

Louis clears his throat. Harry turns, not looking surprised. He’d probably heard Louis stumbling, or even Louis outside. Then again, he really never looks that surprised- he has a weird sixth sense for Louis’ whereabouts.

“I have to go, Kendall, I’ll- yeah, later.” Harry hangs up, the phone clattering on the dining table.

“Who was that?” Harry asks, abruptly, and Louis raises his brows. “Outside,” Harry clarifies. 

Louis rolls his eyes, picking his way across the room and flopping on the sofa. “None of your fookin’ business.” His accent always comes out more distinctly if he’s been drinking.

“You said,” Harry continues, voice shaking slightly, “You called them ‘your dearest love’, I- I have a right to know who-”

“ _ No _ ,” Louis says, sitting up swiftly. It makes him dizzy, and he has to pause for a moment to breathe shallowly. He might be drunker than he’d thought initially. “ _ No _ , you don’t have that  _ fucking _ right, Harry.” He snarls, distinctly as he can. “You don’t- maybe once you did, okay, maybe three years ago you could’ve asked me and I would have told you, maybe three years ago I wouldn’t have gone out alone at all, but you-”  _ Dumped me _ . Louis stops lightheaded, terrified,  _ too much _ . His work at appearing nonchalant, at treating the subject with casual irreverence, will be for nothing if he doesn’t  _ stop _ .

Fuck.

“Do you really want to talk about that?” Harry says, tone softer than normal, like he has to treat Louis with delicacy lest he break apart, and it makes Louis furious. Harry hasn’t even  _ seen _ him at his worst, at the gritty, shameful, center of his spiral, he has no right.  _ Fuck _ Harry,  _ fuck him _ .

Louis struggles to his feet, stalking towards him. Harry watches him approach, green eyes gleaming periodically in the low light.

“You are going to have to watch me date,” Louis lies deliberately slowly, eyes locking with Harry’s. “You are going to have to watch me fall in love with someone, eventually. You are going to have to watch me fucking get married, and you will walk me down the fucking aisle.”

It’s probably one of the cruelest things he could have said to Harry. Louis doesn’t give a  _ fuck _ . Harry’s ruined him for anyone else, Harry’s broken his heart and broken every single  _ fucking _ dream he’d had for their futures, big house with children and laughter and music- gone, in one fell swoop, rendered obsolete and stupid. That’s what hurts the most sometimes- he’d thought they were made for forever, made for children and marriage, how stupid he’d been. Louis can be as cruel as he wants.

He  _ sees _ the way those words buckle Harry, tearing through him, the opalescent shine of his eyes gone feverish and haunted. “No,” Harry says, seemingly involuntarily, “No, Lou, I-”

“And,” Louis interrupts, “You are going to do it with a smile on your fucking face, because  _ you _ did this to us.  _ You _ made us  _ whatever we fucking are _ , and I can’t even count the number of times I’ve wondered why. So shut the  _ fuck _ up about whatever you ‘have a right to’. When it comes to me, you have as many rights as I allow you.”

Harry goes silent, and this close Louis can see the wetness in his eyes, how accurately and ruthlessly Louis can still pinpoint every ache of his heart and exploit it.

“Lou,” Harry says, shaking, “Lou. I’m  _ sorry _ , you know I am, I- I can explain, I promise. I didn’t, you don’t have to wonder why, I can tell you-”

“What,” Louis says incredulously, “Like I  _ want _ you to tell me exactly how I wasn’t  _ fucking _ enough for you?” He’s so furious the air in his head’s gone dim and white, syrup heating and shrilling at a feverish pitch.

“You were always enough,” Harry whispers, a hand flitting to his hair and pulling at it viciously. “You were  _ always _ , always- it was always you, I always-”

Louis kisses him to shut him up.

  
  


(He doesn’t know how they became this: this amalgamation of raking fingers and gasped curses, pleasure and pain and sobbing from both of them.)

What he knows is this: they make it to the sofa somehow, clothes-less. Harry’s got his mouth on Louis’ neck and three fingers inside him.

(It’s good. It’s  _ so _ good, it’s spine-meltingly good and Louis is gasping and sobbing and cursing Harry all in the same breathing, weeping even as he sighs in pleasure.)

“Lou, can I, please,” Harry breathes disjointedly, words slurred, and Louis nods frantically, sweaty and too  _ much _ . “Please, I, yes.”

They fuck and it’s less like fire and more like air, like a deep breath after almost drowning. Harry presses him deep into the fold of the sofa, his hands inexplicably gentle. He knows, even as he’s edging on orgasm, that after this is over whatever tentative excuses of “just friends” they’ve built over the years are going to be gone. They’re going to have to take a break from each other, at least for a while- they’ve survived it before, but Louis will miss him, miss Harry in the morning, playful and cooperative, miss Harry irritated but fond, miss Harry with that glazed, trance-like, look of desire on his face.

“Lou,  _ baby _ , sweetheart.” Harry whispers, voice hoarse. He’s pressing nipping kisses to Louis’ neck.  _ Better not be thinking about leaving a love bite, Casanova,  _ he said less than a month ago, on the same sofa, and it feels like a lifetime ago.

“Louis, Lou, baby, promise, I, I. I always-” Harry gets like this, Louis thinks vaguely, when they have sex. Disjointed, the words coming out singular and full of incoherent, insistent, meaning. That’s all he has time to think before everything goes hazy and rose-colored, nothing but pleasure melting up his spine and Harry on top of him, inside him, Harry Harry Harry.

_ Harry _ , he thinks he might cry out. Everything’s confusing. He’s coming before he knows it, all heat and fullness.

Harry growls softly in his ear, thrusting once before coming. He sinks against Louis, arranging his limbs more neatly.

Things like words, surfaces, solidity, emotions, they melt into each other. There’s just blurred touch and shadows, and the chill frigid on his skin. He makes a soft sound of discontent, and Harry gathers him closer, scooping him into his arms and standing.

He makes an indistinct noise, half approval and half confusion, and then everything falls away, things going sweet and silent. Sleep.

  
  
  


Louis wakes up, Harry naked behind him. They’re in a bed, crisp sheets and slow breathing, sun warming their backs. They’re curled towards each other, Louis tucked under Harry’s chin and legs tangling together.

It’s terrifying at first. The sex- sofa cushions pressing against his back, Harry gasping his name, guttural promises he’ll never fulfill. Louis stills every muscle, trying not to wake Harry up, trying to figure a way out. Nothing has ever scared him more than the boy curled around him, heartbeat between two swallows. Nothing ever will.

“I know you’re awake.” Harry says eventually, and Louis has to swallow against the immediate rush of emotion that rises to crest at the sound of Harry’s morning voice- deeper than usual, rough and in need of clearing. Knotted, invariably complex, emotions- fear, horror, gladness, tenderness, love, anticipation, sadness.

“I wasn’t moving.” Louis says into the hollow of Harry’s throat.

“No,” Harry agrees, a hand tugging out from under him and moving to sweep up the curve of his back, the long divot of his spine and the round cleft of his arse. Louis stays silent. “You weren’t.” He presses a soft kiss to Louis’ hairline.

This has to- stop. They aren’t a goddamn couple, they won’t be waking up together in the future and Louis has to put it to an end before he starts imagining this every morning.

“Right,” Louis mutters, freeing himself of Harry’s arms. It’s not easy- Harry keeps returning them back to their original locations, making discontent noises - but Louis manages it, if only by thinking viciously of the white-walled room in New York, the blank look in Harry’s eyes, and the pale vicious light pouring in through the windows,  _ you’re my best friend  _ echoing through endless cathedrals. 

Louis rolls left, sliding out of bed and standing. He’s naked save for his pants, but that’s fine. If he just makes it to his room-

“Wait,” Harry says, sitting up, raking a lazy hand through his tangled hair. He looks odd and bereft, skin pale and goose-prickled in the morning chill. Louis digs his nails into his palm, trying to breathe less obviously.

“You’re going to leave by tomorrow.” Louis says, abruptly. “Go to Nick’s, maybe. You’re going to text me once you’re there safe and then you’re not going to text me at all, until I contact you.”

“What,” Harry breathes, rising from the bed, sheets wadded whitely around him. “No, Lou, we need to talk. Please.”

“Talk,” Louis repeats blankly, and then, louder, “You want to  _ talk _ ?”

“We should have talked ages ago, Lou.”

Louis stands, shivering, staring at Harry. If they  _ talk _ , Louis can’t guarantee what things might come spilling out of the cracks, the walls he’s built around certain obscure parts of himself shuddering and breaking apart. If  _ that _ happens, it’s going to be so, so hard to go back to what they are- were.

“We can’t talk.” Louis says at last, wrapping his arms around himself. Harry makes a soft sound, stretching away and grabbing a soft lilac robe from the nightstand. They’re in Harry’s room, Louis realises. He hands it to Louis, and Louis automatically reaches out to take it. Their hands brush.

The robe smells like Harry, and it’s soft, and Louis wants to die.

“Why not?”

“Do you even remember,” Louis says, acidic, “What it was like, the first time? When you broke up with me? Do you-” He pauses, shuddering. “You had the  _ nerve _ to ask me to still be friends, because you  _ couldn’t lose me _ , you _ arrogant _ arsehole. And I was still in love with you, so I said yes. I- and you want to  _ talk _ ? Do you remember how hard it was after that time in the hallway?”

Harry’s gone still and pale. “Lou,” He says, softly, “I want to explain something.”

Louis stares at him, silently. This is such a bad idea. This is  _ such _ a bad idea, but so was holding his hand in the late afternoon light, so was curling up together on the couch arguing lazily about  _ Grease _ , so was sleeping together, and Louis Tomlinson doesn’t do things half-way.

“We’re not doing this in your bedroom.” Louis says, abrupt. “I’m going to change. You- put some clothes on. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

He leaves, hallways reaming past him, a blur of wall and carpet as he makes his way for his own room, sucking in panicked breaths. There’s a reason he gave Harry a room so far away from his own.

Louis tugs on clothes quickly and easily- there are loose blue jeans somewhere, worn soft and ragged. He slides off Harry’s robe, the lavender color of it unexpectedly pretty, and yanks his yellow crewneck over his head, raking an absent hand through his hair.

Louis makes his way down the stairs. He feels so absolutely and completely aware of himself that he’s almost not present, floating down the stairs in a blur of jarred noticings.

Harry’s at the kitchen table, head in his hands. He’s put on an old pair of joggers and a large gray hoodie.

Louis slides in a chair next to him. They stare at each other, briefly, and then Louis averts his eyes. “You wanted to talk,” Louis prompts, expectant.

Harry swallows. “I- yes. I need to explain, I don’t think you- I should have told you this two years ago.”

Louis goes still, listening, eyes narrow on Harry’s downcast face.

“Do you remember,” Harry says, slowly, “How it was like, back in 2014? When- when you had to walk around with Eleanor, and I had to be seen staying over with Paige, or Kendall, or Sara, or Nadine, or whatever the fuck their names were. Do you remember how-” He cuts off, biting his lip.

Louis stares.  _ Does he remember 2014? _ What a question.

For a moment, it all comes rushing back. 2014. What a goddamn era.

There was Eleanor, of course. She was sweet, and pretty, and Louis could care less. She’d reached out, wanting to befriend him “if we’re going to do this”, but whenever he looked away from Harry for one second to text her, he’d seen the accusing look on Harry’s face. He’d had to choose, between having a friendly working relationship with El and not hurting Harry, and the choice was obvious. He’d had to rebuff Eleanor’s friendship overtures, which made it all the more agonizing to hold hands with her, fake-kiss her. And still, whenever pap pics made their way into the newstream of them uncomfortably holding hands without looking at each other, Harry would go silent and angry for the rest of the day. 

Louis, in turn, struggled between apology and irritation- couldn’t Harry see that he and Eleanor weren’t even friendly? And, too, it had felt like a vicious, heart-twisting, sort of payback, for the countless times Harry’d had to papped stumbling out of a model’s room, of how much it hurt to read about Harry having a “fling” in the rags, no matter how untrue he knew it was.

They couldn’t touch each other in public, he remembers. Couldn’t look at each other, because it would be too  _ obvious _ .  _ Always so obvious _ , Liam had whispered in his ear once, and it hadn’t felt like the sweet comment Liam had intended it as, it had felt like a brand, a sigil blazing on his skin. He’d been spooked for the rest of the night, making sure to not so much as glance at Harry, because what if everyone could tell?

Not being able to touch each other in public made them frantic for each other in private, pressed together constantly, curled up in the same chair or refusing to shower without each other. Such closeness in brief, stinging, doses was almost as bad as drifting apart. They snapped at each other, tearing each other down constantly, but couldn’t stand to sleep apart. They went to bed angry, curled around each other. They kissed with  _ teeth. _

He’d been angry at Harry, too, for not fighting. Whenever they’d had meetings with management Louis was standing up and shouting, gesticulating and swearing and brandishing legal jargon like a bulwark, threatening to call his lawyer. Once he’d shouted  _ why don’t I just post a picture of myself sucking Harry’s cock, we’ll see how you try to explain that one away _ . Harry had always  _ taken  _ it, and they fought about it viciously, Louis snarling  _ fight for us, why don’t you ever fight for me _ , Harry pleading  _ We’ll get through it if we lay low, why does it matter that people know, why do they have to know. It’s not any of their business, anyway. _

When he thinks of 2014, now, he thinks of stinging, frantic, jealousy; fury and overwhelming, terrible love. He thinks of getting on his knees and sucking Harry’s cock in the bathroom at the BRIT awards, walking back to his table with his voice hoarse and sitting down smiling, of Harry needing fifteen minutes to be presentable and ending up late because he “needed a wee”, thinks of fucking in the showers, all shivering-gasping-orgasms and wet eyelashes, thinks of walking with Eleanor and Harry waiting for him at home, ready to pounce, a corrosive  _ had fun with your girlfriend _ on his tongue.

“We were killing each other,” Harry says, softly, and it’s not altogether an inaccurate description. 

“What,” Louis says sharply, “So you broke up with me once we’d finally fixed it?” In 2015 it had been easier at first, they’d had more room, been able to interact with each other in public if only because of the band breakup rumors.

“No,” Harry says, biting his lip. “I. It was meant to be temporary. I didn’t mean to- we almost broke up half a dozen times during 2014,  _ fuck _ . And tour would make it so much worse, and I thought we should- break up,  _ temporarily _ , until it all died down and we could touch each other in public, but I knew I couldn’t break up with you if it was- if - so I pulled away so it would be easier at first, and I thought-” He pauses, sucking in a panicked breath, “So I thought, during the hiatus, we could. Find each other again. You’ve almost been my forever, you know that. And you were so quiet, and you’re not quiet, and we were happy but not- I thought it would be. Better. But then you- then I broke up with you and then you were  _ so _ ,” Harry’s crying now, steadily, “So  _ loud _ afterwards, like you were finally happy again. It was. I couldn’t- you were playing pranks and you were going out and it was like I’d set you free, it was so  _ fucking  _ obvious, shit. You were just so  _ happy _ . And that made me happy, too, but then you said you had a  _ baby _ , and I realised I’d just- fucking  _ lost _ you, that would be lucky if you let me in your life as a friend or at all, because I’d broken up with you and you’d found something else, you were fine without me, you had a  _ baby. Fuck. _ And then we were- us, we were best friends, and that was. But I’ve been in love with you for almost a decade, Lou, and we slept together, and I’m not sorry.”

Louis stares, just- stares. Because. What.

Everything’s quivering, his vision shivering and waxing, and Louis realises it’s because he’s shaking.

“You’re in love with me,” Louis says, slowly.

Harry nods, silently.

Louis has never, in his  _ life _ , been so fucking furious.

“You  _ arrogant son of a bitch, _ ” Louis begins, standing slowly from the table, shaking in fury, “You  _ fucking cunt _ .”

Harry goes white.

“You said I was  _ quiet _ in 2015- do you remember what  _ you _ were doing, then? You were pushing me away whenever I tried to kiss you and snapping at me for little things, take a fucking  _ guess _ why I was so  _ quiet _ . I-” Louis shudders, shouldn’t be saying this but he’s so angry, “I thought you’d stopped wanting me, you don’t even know how fucking lost I felt. I tried to be quiet because you kept shushing me, I thought I was too- too loud for you, too much, I tried to be  _ good enough _ . You made me hate myself, do you know? You’re the only one who’s ever made me want to be anything else than what I was. 2015 was the worst fucking year of my life. And then you- you bloody broke up with me, and I thought  _ fuck it _ , if me being loud bothered you so much, fuck it, I’d bother you as much as I wanted to.”

“And you were so- so unaffected, I never saw you cry or  _ anything _ , and I didn’t want you to see me cry, either, I didn’t want Niall or Liam to know, but I  _ hated _ myself, I hated everything, hated you. So I was loud, and I played pranks, and I did everything normal and right and when it was dark I’d go out and clubbing, and I’d always end up in the bathrooms, either to get high, vomit, fuck someone. It was  _ so bad _ . I was so bad, I haven’t smoked in a year, did you know, because it’s just. It reminds me of that, and then I fucked a girl named Briana Jungwirth and there was a baby, and I was so happy at first because I thought you’d be so- that you’d-” He’s shaking too badly for the words to come out right, everything’s gone too-bright and too-dark, the colors not-quite right and nothing aligning properly. 

“I was always thinking about you, and whenever I didn’t think about you it was because I wanted to prove I could  _ not _ think about you for a few minutes. But you wanted to be  _ friends,  _ and so I tried to be. Friends. And then, then, Mum. And. You’re so  _ fucking- _ you  _ ruined _ me for a year, you know that? I kept trying to- I had this friend, and he was trying to help me get better, and he told me I had to care about myself, and I said,” 

Fuck, he’s crying now, too. Tears slipping down his face bonelessly, everything blurred and gray. “I said  _ why should I, if he doesn’t _ , and some days I still can’t believe that was me. You were  _ everything _ and you’d- you’d dumped me and I felt like nothing. I was  _ so _ not  _ okay _ . I wrote music about it that I’ve only shown one person in my life and I’m better and sober and fine now but you  _ did _ that to me, even if it was meant to be  _ temporary _ , and I’ve never forgiven you for it.”

“Lou,” Harry says hoarsely, rising up from the table. He’s got his arms around Louis, shushing, and Louis is burying his head in Harry’s neck, gasping, wanting to hurt him but not knowing how.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, sorry. Lou, I’m sorry, you’re perfect, you’re so perfect, I’ve never wanted you to be anything other than what you are, you’re so perfect. I’m so sorry.” Harry murmurs, a litany of things he can’t change. Like that makes it  _ better _ , Louis thinks viciously, like he hadn’t wanted to not exist a dozen times or more, like it wasn’t all because of Harry.

“Nothing’s changed.” Louis says into Harry’s neck, shaking. Everything feels blurry, nothing makes sense, facts are misconceptions and long-lost-loves are returned to him, but he  _ knows _ what he has to do, and this love is breaking him apart again.

“Everything’s changed.” Harry insists, contrary and insistent.

“No,” Louis says, tiredly. He frees himself of Harry’s arms backing away. He’s still warm.

“We’re the same people. If we get back together- it’ll be 2014 all over again, you  _ know _ it will. You’re in the spotlight right now, it’s not- right, the timing, and I’m still so angry at you, and you still don’t want to come out with me because it’s ‘not anyone’s business’. And anyway, I can’t come out regardless because- Simon’s pushing Eleanor on me again.” Louis confesses, a sob tearing through him. 

“What,” Harry says blankly. “No-”

“What we have- this friendship - it’s good. It’s not  _ enough _ , of course it’s fucking not, but it’s good. It’s  _ such _ a fine line, but we’ve always managed it, Harry. We won’t talk to each other for a month, wait for it to fade, and then we can be- friends again, we’ve done it before. I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember, Hazza, but-” He pauses, inhaling. 

“Don’t even  _ try _ to convince me that you’d be content with Eleanor holding my hand, Harry. Because you won’t be, and I can’t lose you again.”

“Louis,” Harry says softly, eyes falling shut.

Louis slides back in the chair, legs coming up and head falling neatly to rest on his knees. 

“I love you,” Harry says, helplessly.

“I know,” Louis says, gentle. The room is crowded with old ghosts, memories and dragonfly-wings as thin and ephemeral as a feather, softly breathing with them.

“You know I’ll always-” Louis breaks off, sighing.

Harry closes his eyes, inhaling. “I know.”

  
  
  


They have breakfast at the Beachwood Cafe, and the coffee’s out and Louis is so, so, tired. Harry has his suitcase with him and a hat pulled low, and there aren’t any fans in sight. Good. Pictures of them together could ruin them.

They don’t talk. They watch each other instead, one after another in the drawn sunlight, eyes lingering, desperate for every last glimpse. When they’re done, Harry calls a cab and they hug, Louis tucking his face into Harry’s neck and crying out, once. Harry kisses his head,  _ I love you I love you I love you _ .

It’s the last time they see each other in 2017.

* * *

_ some indeterminate time in the 2020’s, probably after the COVID pandemic is over, let’s say 2022, shall we? _

* * *

“So, you’re thinking about it.” Louis surmises, biting at his lap absently. Clifford and Bruce are tussling in the backyard, and the sky is thick with blue and hazy pearl-coloured clouds. He’s leaning on the balcony, and as always, the thought flickers in the forefront of his mind: how much it would hurt to fall.

“I. Well, it’s been a  _ bit _ over eighteen months, hasn’t it?”

Louis laughs, shortly. “You’re not funny, love.”

“You laughed,” Harry points out, smug even through the phone.

“It was a pity laugh,” Louis tells him, smiling absently. “I was laughing  _ at _ you, not with you.”

“What else is new,” Harry says indistinctly, his voice sounding far-away, like he’s set down the phone somewhere. Louis closes his eyes, breathing.

“Lou,” Harry says, sounding clearer, “I- Eleanor just posted something with you and the dogs.” He sounds stretched-thin, the contours of his voice carefully tamped down. If they hadn’t been what they were, if Harry had the right, his voice would be high, shaking. “Elounor” has never stopped bothering him- nor, Louis thinks, will it ever.

“Mm,” Louis agrees. “She came over yesterday and we did a photoshoot with us and the dogs to make it look like we’ve been living together for years like a proper heterosexual couple. Also, ‘ave you got a fookin’ Google Alert set up for her name?” 

There’s a telling pause. “Well,” Harry starts, but Louis is already laughing, eyes lighting on Bruce and Cliff, head ducked down and smiling.

“You’re a fookin’ stalker, lad.” Louis tells him, fiddling absently with his fringe. “If she was actually my heterosexual-wholesome-forever-girlfriend, I might ‘ave to challenge you to a duel in her honor.” 

“Your… heterosexual-wholesome-forever-girlfriend.” Harry echoes mockingly, giggling after he finishes.

“It’s the name of my next single, thoughts?”

“That’ll convince them all,” Harry drawls, low and shivery, “I can picture the headlines now.

“Louis Tomlinson: Confirmed Heterosexual, Larry Stylinson Shippers Sob Themselves To Sleep At Night.”

“God bless their little hearts.” Harry deadpans, laughing when Louis does.

“So, anyway. You’re thinking about-” Louis breaks off, waving his hand vaguely. “Agreeing.”

“What, like you aren’t? It’s been a long time, Lou. And we’re all sort of in between projects right now, we might as well.”

“Ya sentimental piece of shit.” Louis says, mocking, and Harry breaks into soft laughter again, saying “No, no, and of course I want- I love the band, you know that.”

“Would be proper nice,” Louis says absently, “T’be able to interact in public without a fookin’ media outcry again.”

There’s a pause, and he realises what he’s said. “You could’ve told me if you wanted to meet up in person,” Harry says, accusingly, and Louis closes his eyes. “Harry.”

“It’s been years, Lou.”

“Oh, I know. Can tell from your hairline, love.” Louis rolls his eyes, poking absently at a piece of curlicue balcony railing. There’s wisteria blooming, wistful and breezy in ripe violescence.

“Now I’m sad,” Harry says, low and in that tone he gets when he thinks he’s funny, “You used to love my hair.”

“Yeah, which’s why I’ve noticed that there’s a lot less of it.”

“ _ Lou _ .”

“Fine,” Louis says, gesturing dismissively, “You’ve got nice hair, alright?”

“Thanks, Lou, that was very heartfelt.”

“Which makes it all the more tragic-”

“ _ Lou _ -”

“How soon it’ll be gone-”

“I’m not  _ balding _ .”

Louis laughs. “You’re so vain, Christ. Why the fans’ve decided that I’m the more shallow one is beyond me.”

“So, we’re agreeing?”

“S’pose so. Look, d’you see what happened to Jude Law? ‘is hairline was like yours, but then ‘e got some sort of hair transplants or summat. You should-”

“Louis, I swear to God.”

And that’s it, really.

* * *

It’s Niall who brought it up. Of course it’s Niall, Louis thinks. They’ve all finished their world tours, things are settled and the fans are forever hopeful.

They enlist Paul, for old time’s sake, and Lottie for makeup. Lou Teasedale they consider, but she’s busy with Lux these days, and there was that article she was interviewed for about how many tour staff members slept with them, which Louis found “personally insulting and an assault on my honor”. Caroline, of course. Jeff Azoff and Niall are golfing buddies. Alberto. Patrick. Josh Devine.

“Are we thinking the Made In The A.M. tour or a brand new album, as well? How far do you boys want to take this?” Jeff asks. They’re in a boardroom. Liam is perky and paying meticulous attention, Niall is yawning, and Louis is sprawled out on one of the more comfortable chairs, which he waged a mini-war with Harry for. “It’s  _ my _ chair, I always sit here.” He’d protested, to which Louis had replied “This is a lawless land, love”. Harry had submitted eventually, of course.

(Harry’s gorgeous. It’s what Louis thought the first time they met, fumbling hands in a bathroom and awkward flirting, it’s what he thought when the four of them met in the corridor outside the meeting-room. His  _ face _ \- callow and open, the most recognizable face in England, curving brows and murky green eyes, pretty lips and strong features. He’s wearing a Gucci coat and underneath, a burgundy women’s jumpsuit, and he’s so attractive Louis has to actively remind himself of how much it hurt last time, of how much he has to lose)

“I have some songs,” Niall offers, and Harry smiles (breathe, Louis tells himself). “Me, too, Ed and I have been writing.”

Liam raises his hand, puppy-ish. “I’ve written a few, as well.”

They all turn to look at Louis. “I’ve also written quite a few songs, mainly inspired by the everlasting love I’ve for my totally-not-a-beard girlfriend, Eleanor Calder, who I love very much and co-own several dogs wi’.” Louis says, smiling winningly. Liam face-plants in the table, groaning. Harry makes a face, laughing under his breath even as he frowns. Niall cackles.

“So, a new album?” Jeff concludes, making an approving noise as they all nod. The meeting room- polished wooden table, pleasingly convex shapes and aesthetically forgiving plants - is all angles and curves, nothing out of place, and being in a room with all of his boys for the first time in years is- staggering. Well, Louis corrects, not  _ all _ of his boys.

“So, I have to ask… Zayn?” Jeff asks, brow wrinkling.

You’re  _ so _ much, Louis thinks, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. I just. I just want to look at you, I want to look at you all the time. 

It makes him sick sometimes, how bad it got, how looking at Harry was enough to get him sent to those dim rooms in the Modest! office, how sometimes he hated his body for betraying him, unable to stop drinking Harry in with every moment.

“Louis?”

Louis startles, straightening. “I, um. I was absolutely listening, but just in case Liam wasn’t, could you repeat that?”

There’s a snorting sound, bit like a horse. I’m not  _ that _ funny, Harry, Louis thinks, mentally rolling his eyes.

“I said, what about Zayn?” Jeff repeats, slowly. Niall and Liam are looking at him like he’s touched in the head, and Louis sticks his tongue out at them.

“Sorry, what  _ about _ Zayn? He’s not in t’band anymore, is ‘e?” Louis says after a moment, blinking at the windows. They’re clear and shining, flat panes of perfect glass. Louis wants windows besotted with smoggy dust, wants glass embraced with crawling ivy, wants character and curlicues,  _ anything _ other than this ghastly, polished, room.

He’s talked with Zayn about it before, of course he has. He knows how  _ strangled  _ Zayn had felt, and it hurts still, to know that Louis was too caught up and consumed for want of Harry, that Zayn couldn’t  _ talk _ to him. He knows, too, that Zayn doesn’t want to come back- they’ve talked about collaboration, but Zayn doesn’t ever want to be officially part of One Direction again.

“Louis,” Niall says, tentatively, “You should think about maybe reaching out- we’d have to tell him, before we officially got together again. Just a heads-up, you know.”

Louis swivels, frowning slightly. Niall doesn’t know, Louis realises, no one in this room knows that Zayn and him are like brothers, that he talks to Zayn more often than he talks to them, even.

“Right,” Louis says, slowly, unsure how to proceed. Secrets are fun, but this could blow up fast.

“No one’s saying you two have to be best mates again,” Liam interrupts, “But if you two could get along-”

“He gets it.” Harry cuts in, leaning forward. The crisp line of his coat, disrupted by the twill seat cushion, falls to reveal the wine-colour of his jumpsuit, the panes of his chest. Louis has to look away, panic and exhilaration bubbling like champagne.

“Does he?” Liam prods, forehead wrinkling. Absently, Louis leans forward to pinch his forehead wrinkles. 

“Don’t do that,” He tells Liam seriously. “You’ll need Botox, right, and then you’ll get mad at me for saying ‘I told you so’. Preserve your youth while you can, young Liam. Take it from your elders, eh?” Louis waves a vague hand at his face. He’s in  [ a cream colored sweater, black skinnies ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinson+cream+sweater+paws&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwipi5DNyaHuAhUTADQIHfC1BCQQ2-cCegQIABAA&oq=louis+tomlinson+cream+sweater+paws&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQA1C2FVjMGmCsG2gAcAB4AIABQIgB9QGSAQE0mAEAoAEBqgELZ3dzLXdpei1pbWfAAQE&sclient=img&ei=e3IDYOnhOpOA0PEP8OuSoAI&bih=871&biw=1577&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918#imgrc=tFXxHk_SLgUlnM) , and a gray beanie, and he feels  _ old _ , okay. Louis is wearing a  _ sweater _ , and it was his own choice, not his stylist’s.  _ He _ got up in the morning and chose to put on a sweater. This is his own fault.

“Don’t say that,” Harry says, the rumble of his voice shocking every muscle along Louis’ spine. Phone calls aren’t enough. “You look fine. Gorgeous, even.”

You’re going to be on a tour bus with him. He’s your best friend, you need to fucking  _ relax _ , Louis tells himself, and turns to his left, smiling at Harry as brilliantly as he can.

“Never said I didn’t, love. Right silver fox, me.”

“You’re not a silver fox,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not even graying, Lou, Jesus.”

“Unlike some others I could name, the integrity of me hair is absolutely unblemished, yes-”

“Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ,  _ my hair is fine _ .” Harry throws up his hands, gripping his hair like a madman, and Louis leans forward, gripping at his wrist. The shock of Harry’s wrist in his hand, firm and present, the touch barrier broken. “Don’t  _ do that _ , you’ll disturb t’follicles-”

“ _ How many times _ , Lou-”

Louis laughs. People find him so level-headed, he knows; all big deep voice and “Treat People With Kindness”; there’s something so exhilarating about being able to drive him to distraction, about being one of the only people able to make Harry Styles raise his voice. It’s what he’s always done, prod and play and snarl until Harry loses himself, until they don’t know if they’re fighting or flirting or fucking anymore. 

_ Not _ fucking, Louis reminds himself, we don’t do that anymore.

“Male pattern baldness is nothing t’be ashamed of, lad. Although I meself have-” Louis pauses, rakes a hand through his messy fringe, poses, “Nothing to worry about in that department, raising awareness is important. D’you know how many people would be inspired if  _ Harry Styles _ was public about his hair issues-”

“ _ Louis Tomlinson _ , my hair is fine-”

“Boys!” Jeff interrupts, staring at them. They settle, mulishly. 

“Thought you two were s’posed to have some sort of…” Jeff waves his hand vaguely, the fingers of his hand thick and meaty. “Feud going on?”

Louis leans forward, sweater curling around him in warm folds. “We do,” He says, seriously. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve put curses on him and his unborn children, mate, but nothing seems to stick, ‘cept the hair ones.”

“Louis.” Harry says, leaning forward as well and looking at him pleading eyes, “I beg you. No more, my ego can’t take it-”

“Love, we both know your ego could use a bit o’ diminishing.” Louis winks, and Harry lets out- he lets out an actual  _ whimper _ , Christ.

“So, no feud, then.” Jeff summarises, scrutinizing them intently. “Weren’t you the one Harry was rumored to be secret boyfriends with?”

The room goes so silent it’s actually astonishing- Niall and Liam become statues, Harry’s face freezes, and Louis tries and fails to come up with something to say.

It’s not that the subject is taboo. It isn’t, but that’s between them two and, occasionally, the boys- Louis can joke about Harry being his jilted ex and Harry will laugh and if it’s slightly pained, well, they keep it discreet. Niall and Liam can joke about them flirting and that’s normal, too, that’s allowed, like they can almost pretend nothing’s changed. It’s something to be shared, something that only exists in the cloistered intimacy between them, partly because it  _ did _ only emerge between that company, back when it  _ did _ exist. 

The boys and each of their families were really the only people they felt comfortable enough with- some curio of closeting, Louis imagines, that second-sense you seem to have for cameras and prying eyes, how easily and swiftly he can sift through options, differentiate between an easily explainable platonic graze and the not as easily dismissed caress.

Someone  _ new _ , someone who doesn’t  _ know _ with the well-practiced ease that the boys and their family know their curious histories- friends, and then lovers, and then exes, and then  _ best _ friends, Christ - breaching that unthinkable barrier, saying brashly “Weren’t you the one Harry was rumored to be secret boyfriends with”, it sends a particular kind of shiver through him. Their families know how to handle the subject- with kid gloves, with delicacy and fine-touch, with no assumptions and hushed tones. Jeff doesn’t.

“This is a tad tense, innit?” Louis comments, leaning back in his chair and tilting two legs off of the floor. Harry coughs out a short, sharp, laugh. The air subsides into silence- not a relaxation but a stiffening, the air freezing in frigid, pleistocene, layers.

Jeff looks wrong-footed, eyes flickering from Harry to Louis to Liam to Niall, as if by analyzing the reams of air between them he’ll somehow figure out what, exactly, HarryandLouis  _ are _ . Good luck, Louis thinks, good fucking luck, mate, I’ve been trying to figure that out for a decade; millions of fans worldwide have been analyzing their interactions long before Jeff even met Harry.

“Well.” Jefferey coughs finally, looking uncomfortable. “Let’s move on: we’ll have to meet with a PR team to choose how you’ll be presenting the news to the public…”

  
  
  
  
  


They reconvene in a nondescript sort of waiting room outside the boardroom, Niall slumping noisily into an Adirondack chair as if he’s been on his feet for hours.

“Your accent’s gotten thicker, mate.” Liam comments, and Louis smiles winningly. “Can’t say the same for you, Li. Practically an American, you are.” 

“Shut up, Lou.” Liam laughs, slinging an easy arm around his shoulders. Louis leans into it briefly. 

“So,” Liam says into his ear, undertone, “You and Harry…”

Louis arches up- on his tiptoes, God, why is his entire life a reminder of his height - and mutters “We’re  _ friends _ , you nosy bugger.”

“Didn’t look like friends from where I was sitting, mate.”

“What’s going on here?” Harry cuts in, smile a bit too sharp, and he’s  _ jealous _ of  _ Liam _ , Christ. Slowly, Louis edges away from Liam, who’s snickering into his hand.

“It’s literally Liam.” Louis hisses, irritated. “ _ Liam _ , Harry.”

“You’ve been jealous of Liam, too.” Niall inserts helpfully, and Louis flushes, remembering that interview where Liam had played with Harry’s neck and he’d just- snapped.

“Let’s move on, shall we?” Louis chirps, sliding closer to Harry, because the other choice is Liam and- well.

“I was thinking,” Harry says, voice slow, “That we should- we recently fit the bungalow with a home studio, in the rec room, and-”

“Lad’s holiday at the bungalow!” Niall yells, so excited he leaps up, feet stumbling in a little jig. The whole scenario- a waiting room, a pashmina smelling of perfume thrown over an ottoman, spread windows opening up the gray sky, Niall and Liam and Harry, all of them unexpectedly together- is boggling, still.

“Like old times.” Louis says, thoughtfully. “S’pose I could clear my schedule- I’ve got tea with the Queen next week, but I’ll call to reschedule -”

“Fuck off, mate.” Niall yells into his ear, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “You know what this is an opportunity for?”

“Finally tattooing the screws on your ankles?” Louis interjects, hopefully.

“No-  _ Christ _ , no -” Niall pauses, face screwing-  _ screw _ ing, God, why does his subconscious share its sense of humor with Harry - up in distaste. “One Direction group chat!”

“Don’t get too excited, now, Niall, we’re in public.” Louis sighs, patting his head.

  
  


It’s later, when they’ve all driven back to their respective houses, that there’s a buzz against his thigh and, when he slides his phone out of his pocket, he sees a new WhatsApp group chat, titled simply:  _ Five Shit Dancerrrrrrs _ . And wait, five. Zayn.

“I will not stand for this.” Louis tells Bruce. He lifts his head off of Clifford’s belly and woofs reproachfully. 

He makes a brand new group chat, sans Zayn, and titles it  _ Actual Official Members of 1D aka the Four Lads Who Stayed Until The Fucking End _ .

**Actual Official Members of 1D aka the Four Lads Who Stayed Until The Fucking End**

Niall:  _ oi _

Liam:  _ what happened to the old chat _

Niall:  _ Lou was a tit, is wot happened _

Harry:  _ Don’t call him a tit _

Louis:  _ thx love _

Harry:  _ It’s like calling someone a pussy, it’s misogynistic _

Harry:  _ If you’re going to call him anything call him an arse _

Louis:  _ oi _

Louis:  _ i feel personally discriminated against _

Liam: _no bc_ _everyone has an arse, it’s not personal_

Louis:  _ not one like mine _

Harry:  _ ^  _

Louis:  _ now i feel objectified _

Harry:  _ You were the one who brought it up! _

Louis:  _ so bc i talk about my own body i’m “asking for it”, is wot you’re saying _

Harry: ….

Harry:  _ I apologize for objectifying you, Lou _

Louis:  _ i’ll consider accepting your apology on several conditions _

Harry:  _ Let me guess, making you breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the bungalow? _

Louis:  _ tf do you take me for, obviously snacks in between and like, entertainment _

Harry:  _ I am a lady of class, Mr. Tomlinson. Your “entertainment” shan’t be provided by me. _

Louis:  _ h we both know you stopped being a lady of class at 16 _

Liam:  _ STOP IT STOP IT _

Liam:  _ WAY MORE THAN I’VE EVER WANTED 2 KNOW _

Niall:  _ why do all of our conversations always end up revolving around Lou’s arse _

Harry:  _ It’s a nice arse. _

Louis: “ _ nice _ ”

Harry:  _ It’s a spectacular arse. _

Louis:  _ ta, love.  _

Niall:  _ that doesn’t mean we have to keep talking about his arse.  _

Liam:  _ yeah let’s move on _

Louis:  _ someone once asked me if i thought about getting it insured, like J. Lo _

Niall:  _ someone once told me i looked quite like gwyneth paltrow _

Harry:  _ You don’t look like Gwyneth Paltrow. _

Louis:  _ literally the only celebrities you look like are Michael Sheen and Ellen _

Harry:  _ Seconded. _

Niall:  _ you’re always teaming up on me it’s not fair _

Niall:  _ liam help me _

Louis:  _ niam shippers rise _

Niall:  _ don’t talk to me about shipping, do you know how many tumblr blogs are dedicated to you and the curly one _

Niall:  _ do you know how many people wanna know who bottoms _

Liam:  _ CHRIST NO LET’S NOT GET INTO THIS AGAIN _

Niall:  _ like genuinely every goddamn year they have a “bottom louis fic fest” dedicated to fics about Louis bottoming.  _

Harry:  _ Do I get a bottom fest too :( _

Louis:  _ bottom harry fic fest is like fyre festival _

Louis:  _ so much potential, so little results _

Harry:  _ So, what you’re saying is, you’ve read them _

Louis:  _ no, wot i’m saying is that Stan reads em and spams me with snippets _

Harry:  _ Christ _

Harry:  _ Stan reads fics about me with a cock up my arse? _

Louis:  _ Stan and millions of fans worldwide. _

Niall:  _ i’ve read them to _

Niall:  _ *too _

Liam:  _ no. more. sex. talk. _

Louis:  _ wrong chat? Try maya instead, mate.  _

Liam:  _ i genuinely hate you. _

Louis:  _ yeah yeah anyway when are we meeting @ the bungalow _

Niall:  _ i’m free whenever and liam has nothing going on _

Liam:  _ OI _

Niall:  _ it’s true innit _

Liam:  _ yeah but how’d you know _

Louis:  _ if u look at the jesus hair it’s not that hard to guess, mate _

Harry:  _ Why don’t we meet in a week?  _

Louis:  _ shut up i’m talking about liam’s hair _

Liam:  _ no you’re not _

Liam:  _ also what is the obsession with everyone’s hair _

Niall:  _ i Googled it the other day it’s called trichophilia _

Louis:  _ I DON’T HAVE A HAIR FETISH. _

Harry:  _ hmm. _

Niall:  _ harry does lou have a hair fetish _

Harry:  _ hmmm. _

Louis:  _ i will actually murder you, harold _

Louis:  _ i’ll bury your fucking body in the woods _

Niall:  _ but remember all those videos where he puts his fingers in h’s curls???? The curls were like the main attractor so????? _

Louis:  _ you don’t even know what shit i’ll put in your tea  _

Harry:  _ hmmm. _

Louis:  _ you’re dead to me _

Harry:  _ So anyway, next week? _

Louis:  _ if you thought the gherkins were bad _

Niall:  _ fine by me, mate _

Liam:  _ yeah i’m free  _

Louis:  _ beyond gherkins _

Liam:  _ Lou _ ?

Louis:  _ shaving cream in your fancy fucking shoes _

Niall:  _ Lou, bungalow in one week?  _

Louis:  _ not even normal shaving cream _

Niall:  _ i can’t even tell if he’s flirting or _

Louis:  _ like that shaving cream they sell @ boots with the colorful shit _

Liam:  _ ‘or’ _

Louis:  _ your chelsea boots will never be the same again. _

Liam:  _ actually i’m not sure anymore _

Louis:  _ ANYWAY bungalow, one week. _

Niall:  _ ROMEO TAKE ME SOMEWHERE WE CAN BE ALONE _

Liam:  _ it’s a date. _

Niall:  _ lol _

Louis:  _ lol _

Harry:  _ Lol. _

Louis:  _ why tf do you always capitalize  _

Louis:  _ you filthy hipster _

Harry:  _ I dunno, grammar? _

Niall:  _ begone, thot _

Louis:  _ yeah but no one actually texts with proper spelling n shit _

Louis:  _ it’s like them fucking black and white instagram pictures jesus christ _

Louis:  _ too much bon iver not enough green day _

Harry:  _ It’s like you’ve managed to capture my soul. _

Liam:  _ save it for the bungalow you two crazy kids _

Louis:  _ oh but LIAM i thought i was saving it for you?  _

Liam:  _ UGH stop it _

Louis:  _ yes daddy _

Niall:  _ shook _

Liam:  _ Christ no _

Liam:  _ I refuse. _

Louis:  _ don’t you want me daddy _

Liam:  _ NO. _

Niall:  _ the lilo shippers are devastated _

Niall:  _ the nouis shippers are hopeful _

Niall:  _ the larry shippers are passionate as ever _

Louis:  _ ‘the nouis shippers’ aka ‘the single existing nouis shipper’ aka ‘niall horan’ _

Niall:  _ you and me could make magic together  _ ;)

Harry:  _ *you and I _

Niall:  _ WE DON’T WANNA BE LIKE THEM _

Liam:  _ WE CAN MAKE IT TILL THE END _

Louis:  _ nothing can come between _

Niall:  _ YOU AND IIIIII _

Liam:  _ YOU AND I _

Louis:  _ you and i _

Harry:  _ Not even the gods above _

Louis:  _ can separate the two of us _

Harry:  _ No, nothing can come between you and I _

Niall:  _ the larry shippers are crazed with joy _

Louis:  _ i’ll castrate you _

Harry:  _ On that cheery note, I have to go.  _

Louis:  _ (aka i have to go wank to black and white polaroids and unwashed hair) _

Harry:  _ Brunch w/ Gemma, actually, but I’ll tell her you send your regards. _

Louis:  _ tell her i miss the better styles sibling _

Niall:  _ tell her niall horan said hi  _ ;)

Louis:  _ What is with the winky face, you’ve literally never held more than two conversations with her _

Niall:  _ Gemma and i text, okay _

Louis:  _ no, I text with gemma. YOU’ve had a creepy fan-crush on her for a decade. _

Niall:  _ have not. _

Louis:  _ have too _

Niall:  _ have not. _

Louis:  _ have not _

Niall:  _ have too _

Louis:  _ ha _

Liam:  _ are you two actually five fucking years old or _

Louis:  _ or _

Niall:  _ or _

“That reminds me, why did Niall randomly start a WhatsApp chat and then not text at all?”

“We’ve a new chat without you, is why.” Louis informs Zayn, grinning at Zayn’s scoff. The shadows shift, murky and dissolving in an instant. Everything is draped with a hush, a glow of marmoreal moonlight spreading briefly across the velvet nap of a chair. He’s leaning against a balcony, a cigarette propped between his index and middle fingers, nestled snugly under the joint of his knuckle. 

Louis hasn’t smoked in years, but these are dark times. “You’re still pretending we don’t talk every week, then?” Zayn sighs. His voice is a thread, drawing Louis from moments of still contemplation. He’s been so silent these days, so content to watch and take everything in, neglecting to verbalize his thoughts. If his eighteen-year old self saw him…

“Not pretending, am I. Just- I haven’t exactly. Told them yet.”

“Can’t be that hard.”

“They want you t’come back.” Louis says in a rush, blinking at the rush of scattered light; headlights in the night.  _ Two headlights shine through the sleepless night, and I will get you, get you alone- _ Jesus  _ Christ _ , there are Taylor Swift lyrics echoing through his mind, this is the lowest point of his life.

“Can’t say I didn’t expect that.” Zayn says after a moment, slow and utterly implacable. It’s so, so familiar, smoking with Zayn’s voice a calming undertow in his ear, threatening to pull him into clear rapids of reason and logic, cool cleverness cutting through all of his mad, colorful, notions. 

“Have you thought about, like, collab? If we collaborated with you on something, I mean. I’ve got a song I haven’t been able to finish for years, we’re doing a new album… the fans who never lost hope would be right pleased, and you wouldn’t officially be part of One D again.”

“Maybe,” Zayn says after a while, his voice almost lost in the buzz of insects in the deep night. “Text me a Voice Memo of  [ the song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXyBcKV0UIo&list=LL4pO65fzW8qFKmyoylS-ang&index=2637) , and I’ll see.”

Louis hums in agreement, eyes falling half-shut, the cigarette dampening his tongue with the faint taste of ash.

“So,” Zayn picks up, “The bungalow.”

“What about it?” Louis says, far too defensive for this time of night. Clifford startles, letting out a soft, shushing, growl before sliding back to his sprawled position. Louis makes a face.

“Lou. Come on. You’re going to be spending a week with  _ him _ in the fucking bungalow and you’re not panicking?”

“When have I ever,  _ ever _ , panicked? I’m not a panicker!” Louis deflects, panicking.

“You are  _ so _ a panicker. You’re the most panicky bugger I’ve ever met.”

“Lies and slander against my good name, Z, I’m the calmest, most laid-back, bloke you’ve ever met.”

Zayn starts laughing. Louis makes another, uglier, face at the phone, stubbing out the faintly glowing cigarette on the balcony. It leaves a smudge of ash, and Louis rubs it off with his thumb, smoothing the charcoal into the pad of his thumb.

“Just. Last time you spent this much time with him, you fucked him and then had a breakdown.”

“I did  _ not _ have a breakdown.” Louis protests, indignant. “It was a mild crisis, at best.”

“You called me crying at four A.M. crying about how you’d just let the love of your life drive away in a fucking Uber.”

“It was a  _ cab _ ,” Louis corrects, because details are important, “Not an Uber. I wouldn’t have made him take an  _ Uber _ .”

“God forbid  _ Harry Styles _ has to wait ten minutes for a lift.” Zayn mutters, and Louis sighs, slightly. “You can’t  _ still _ be angry at him. And people say  _ I _ hold grudges.”

“They say you hold grudges because they think you’re still on bad terms with me.”

“Which I am  _ not _ , so I  _ don’t _ hold grudges, so you need to fix things with Harry.”

“Sketchy logic, mate.”

“It’s been seven  _ fucking _ years, Zayn, what he did or didn’t do to me doesn’t  _ matter _ .”

“You’re my best mate,” Zayn says, softer, “And he broke your heart. I was there to pick up the pieces, I know how bad it got, and I’m not going to forgive him until he gets down on his knees and proposes.”

“I  _ knew _ -”

“To  _ you _ , not me. Jesus Christ, Lou.”

“We’re not,” Louis says, jumping to his feet, “ _ Together _ . Why the fuck does everyone always forget? First Liam, and now you. What happened to t’speeches about how much you hated ‘im?”

“If you think you two won’t end up together,” Zayn sighs, with an air of vague superiority, “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“We’ve- we’re not -”

“You haven’t held a single successful relationship since you two broke up, and neither has he. That’s not even because of baggage, it’s because you two haven’t even  _ packed _ the bags yet.”

“There was, what’s-her-name, tha’ model, the French one. Camille.” Saying it, even now, makes him wince. He remembers, like a shock of blue water, Fine Line.  [ To Be So Lonely  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6PPK-6FeJ9A) ( _ arrogant son of a bitch, don’t call me baby again _ ),  [ Falling ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFSFpHjsLY0) (Beachwood cafe, no coffee, the thread of understanding passing unspoken),  [ Fine Line ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BViDG6QDe1w) ( _ it’s  _ such _ a fine line, but we’ve always managed it, Harry _ ). Those had broken his heart, what was left of it- but even worse were the songs he didn’t know, he couldn’t pinpoint, the songs addressed to other people.  [ Cherry ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGeJ73yAAhQ) ,  [ She ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQ3PeDGswz4) ,  [ Sunflower, Vol. 6 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tUUElxEGo0U) (he’d thought, briefly, of the sunflowers planted in branching rows in the garden, wilted and drooping by the time Harry had visited, but the song was too upbeat for it to apply to them).

“And Harry’s not a cheater but he cheated on her, which means he obviously didn’t give a fuck about her. Your point being?”

“We’re not- he’s one of my best friends, and I’m in love with him. That’s- fine. D’you- d’you know what it’s  _ like _ , ‘aving to see your boyfriend in the rags with model after model, to have to hold hands with a girl you’ve never exchanged more than a few words with? I love ‘im, ‘course I do, but I’m not going through that fucking era again. One D’s getting back together again, Christ. If we were to ever get together, it’s not going to be now.”

“What, like the past five years have been  _ so _ inconvenient? No, you two are- difficult. But you’ll be together by the end of the month, I’m sure of it.”

“We  _ won’t _ ,” Louis says, breathing harshly. His words echo into the glacial planes of the night, stretching ivy and vines gleaming in the starlight, the roughly tamed gardens around the property, silencing the cicadas and scaring the moths. Everything feels round and blurry, like water sliding off a sweating glass, and when he touches his hands to his eyes they come back wet.

  
  


The next day, he calls Eleanor.

“Hello, girlfriend.” Louis chirps the second the call connects, and he hears a vaguely suspicious noise. “Louis? Why- what’s going on?”

“Um,” Louis answers. “Well. Two things.”

“Oh, God.” Eleanor groans, and he hears the vague sounds of an indistinct conversation being finished. He feels a bit stupid, now- it’s never really occured to him to be curious about her life outside of being Louis Tomlinson’s Girlfriend, capital-G. Maybe she has an actual boyfriend, or even a girlfriend. 

He hasn’t asked, hasn’t ever wondered. They hooked up once, when he was hung up on Harry and hellbent on having more meaningless sex than anyone could feasibly need. (Not that he’s not still hung up on Harry, but back when it still hurt to say his name out loud.) 

He doesn’t remember it now- blurred drunken laughter, the scratch of lace in his hands, crisp hotel sheets and waking up with a hangover so bad he’d crawled into the loo, vomited into the toilet, brushed his teeth, and fallen asleep in the bathtub.

“Okay, what is it?” Eleanor says, her voice coming in clearer. 

Louis clears his throat, idly tracing a finger down the strings of a guitar. He’s in the music room, cross-legged on the carpet because the carpet was soft and he wanted comfort.

“Well, one, there’s some right big news coming soon.”

“Okay,” Eleanor drawls. “Planning to elaborate?”

Louis sighs. She’s under several ironclad NDA’s, anyway. “So, the band- as in, One D - may or may not be getting back together, so I just wanted to be a proper fake boyfriend and let you know.”

“Considerate of you.”

“I thought so.”

“Mmm. What do you want?”

“Could you watch the dogs for me?” Louis blurts out.

There’s a pause, and then she’s making a series of exasperated noises.

“Why the hell would I-”

“Okay, come on, you love Bruce,” Louis argues, tugging the guitar into his lap. The convex, polished, bulk of it lands awkwardly in his lap, sort of absently soothing. It couldn’t be a teddy bear if it tried, but it’s comforting nevertheless. “Not too sure how you feel about Clifford, but you and Bruce’ve always had a special- his name is literally Bruce Calder Tomlinson.”

“That’s  _ fake _ , though.” Eleanor says, exasperatedly. Louis rolls his eyes, strumming. “Yeah, no shit.”

“I have a life outside of you, you know.” Eleanor says, in an odd echo of his earlier thoughts.

“Couldn’t have guessed, love.” Louis says, arching a brow, and then, sighing, he relents. “Look, El, you don’t have to- it’s fine if you don’t feel up to it.”

“No,” Eleanor says, after a pause. “No, I don’t mind.”

“Fantastic. Great. Lovely. Amazing. Should we-”

“I’ll stop by- when do you need me?”

“In a week. Not for long, for about a month.”

“Great.”

“Great.” Louis repeats. This is their storied love.

Eleanor hangs up.

“That went well,” Louis tells the guitar.

He calls Briana next. “You aren’t scheduled to talk to Freddie today,” She says when she picks up, sounding irritated.

“Wow,” Louis says, raising his brows, “It’s almost like you don’t like me, love.”

Briana sighs, short. “Freddie’s seven years old, there’s a new crisis every damn hour, what do you want?”

“Funny,” Louis says, “That’s what El said, too. It’s almost like my dating history is fake, or something.”

“What do you  _ want _ , Louis.”

“There’s big news coming soon. Just- wanted to warn you. In case the paps- or whatever, I dunno.”

“Wow.” Briana says after a moment, “Thanks.”

“Don’t overwhelm me with your gratitude, love. Now, I was wondering- is Freddie around, then?”

“You’re  _ not scheduled _ .” Briana snaps, and Louis inhales, slowly. “I would like to talk to my fooking  _ son _ , Bri.”

“Your  _ fookin’ _ son,” Briana imitates, snidely, and he rolls his eyes. “Let’s not do this again, love. I know you do a lot, you take care of Freddie, you’re a great mother. I  _ know _ . Please. Can I talk to ‘im?”

“Five minutes.”

“Ten,” Louis negotiates.

“Seven.”

“Fifteen.”

“Do you know how bargaining works?”

“Can’t say I do. Twenty.”

“God,  _ fine _ , ten.”

Louis smiles triumphantly. “Brilliant, thanks, Bri.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Briana sighs, and he hears her walking, hushed sounds of motion.  _ Freddie, your Daddy wants to talk with you _ …. Distantly, he hears Freddie let out an excited cry. There’s a crash, and Bri sighs under her breath.

“Daddy!” Freddie says, out of breath.

“Hey, love.” Louis says, smiling at the phone. “Listen, Fred, I wanted to let you know- something big is happening soon, and so if you see my face in the papers, don’t worry, alright?” He’s never had to grow up with Louis’ face in the tabloids- part of that is his distance, him living in America, and part of it is because Louis hasn’t been getting himself in the rags. With what’s happening… He knows, more than anyone, how many lies the tabloids can print. 

“Something big?” Freddie echoes, confused and lipsing slightly. Louis smiles, biting his lip. “Yeah, love. Something big is going to happen, and you might hear people talking about me.”

“Are you going to make songs with Uncle Leeyum again?”

Louis laughs. “That’s it, lad. And people like to print lies, so you might hear them saying things that aren’t true. The important thing to remember is that I love you, alright? And Bruce and Clifford love you, and your Mum loves you, and Aunt Lottie and Phoebe and Daisy love you, and Uncle Liam loves you, and Uncle Zayn loves you, and Ernie and Dory love you.”

“I love you too, Daddy!” Freddie squeals, and Louis glances at his shoes, smiling so hard his cheeks ache. “Love you more.”

“Love you  _ mostest _ ! Most, most, most!”

“I’ve loved you before you were born, lad. Think I’ve got you beat there.”

“I loved you before I was born, too.” Freddie insists, stubborn to a fault, and Louis inhales, voice catching. “Is that right, love?”

“I was in Mommy’s tummy and I loved you the mostest!”

“Well,” Louis says, slow and grinning, “I can’t argue with that, can I?”

  
  


He calls Harry after that, too, because he’s still smiling and he wants to do this while he’s in a good mood. The sunlight washes over the azaleas gently, the guitars and the keyboard and the dogs, all of it breathing in gentle light. A  _ good _ day, Louis thinks absently, things are going  _ well _ , he’s an  _ adult _ .

“Lou?” Harry answers, sounding confused. “What do you want?”

“Wow, both El and Bri said the exact same thing.” Louis says without thinking, and then immediately wishes he was born with a zip on his mouth.

“Wow,” Harry says, sounding flat, “You’re really talking to all the exes, then.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Louis says, rolling his eyes, “El and I only hooked up the once-”

“ _ What _ ?”

“Oh,” Louis says, stupidly, because he hadn’t been talking to Harry at that point, shit, and Harry hadn’t known. “I mean. Hello, Harold, how’s your day been going?”

“You slept with her,” Harry says, disbelieving, “You actually slept with Eleanor- when was this?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Louis interjects, defensive.

“ _ Louis _ .”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. And things were going so  _ well _ , Louis thinks despairingly. “Late 2015, Christ.  _ After _ we broke up. We were drunk. It happened  _ once _ . And you’ve slept with people, too, don’t pretend you haven’t.”

“That’s different,” Harry says, voice low, and Louis bites his lip, shaking his head. “ _ How _ , exactly, is it so different, Harry?” He bites out, because he  _ hates _ it when Harry gets like this, irrationally possessive- except he loves it, too, and he hates that.

“You  _ know _ why it’s- God.  _ Eleanor _ .” Harry falls silent, and Louis does, too. The thing is, he does know. Eleanor’s always been- different, worse than Taylor or Caroline or Sara or Nadine or Paige.

“I didn’t call you to- get into this with you,” Louis says after a while, watching the sunlight arc and twist in glancing movements, a dance along the tune of wind and grass. 

“Well.” Harry says, dragging his words out like he does when he’s irritated, “S’pose I should be happy I wasn’t after Danielle.”

“That’s not- I called Eleanor to ask her to watch the dogs, and I called Bri to talk to Freddie. It wasn’t- I wasn’t - and I don’t have to  _ explain _ myself to you, Jesus Christ.”

“Fine.” Harry says, sighing. “Why’d you call, then?”

“I just.” Louis says, slowly, “We’re best friends. Do I need a reason to call?”

“Hmm,” Harry hums, amused. “Just a friendly catch-up, then?”

“Yep.” Louis says, fake-cheery. He affects a posh accent; “How  _ are _ you, darling, it’s been simply  _ ages _ .”

“Is that your imitation of me?” Harry asks, incredulously, and Louis frowns, vaguely insulted. “No, that was my ladies-who-lunch imitation. Also, wait, I can totally imitate you, what’s with the disbelieving tone?”

“Whenever you imitate me you end up sounding like Kermit the Frog.”

“That’s because you literally  _ are _ Kermit the Frog.” Louis says, slowly. “You’ve got the eyes, the face, you sound like him with a British accent-”

“So, what you’re saying is, you’ve technically fucked Kermit the Frog-”

“ _ You fucking _ -”

“Calm down, sweetheart.” Harry laughs, and if Louis closes his eyes he can picture it already, Harry leaning back, the long, lustrous muscles of his arms and his shoulders, the dark curl of his hair and the green of his eyes, glistening like sour apple candy.

“Don’t call me sweetheart, you fuckwit bastard-”

“Calm down, baby.” Harry corrects, and Louis falls silent, incensed.  _ Don’t call me baby again _ , he’d told Louis once, but it’s alright if it was  _ Harry _ doing it? Such, he thinks to himself, is the grand hypocrisy of Harry Styles.

“So,” Louis says after a moment, electing to benevolently overlook the previous sentence, “ ‘Ave you really been writing with Ed, or were you just trying to suck up to Jeff? I promise I won’t tell.”

“I’ve really been writing with Ed,” Harry says, laughing slightly. “Projecting, are you?”

“Oi, I have- songs.” Louis says, indignantly. His eyes fall to the CD cabinet, Hiding Place #27 for his EP. “They’re just- I’m not. Sure. If we should use them.”

“We should.” Harry says immediately, and Louis rolls his eyes. “You haven’t heard them, they could be shit, for all you know.”

“They’re not shit,” Harry says, certain. “You wrote them.”

Louis inhales, sharply. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, when he and Harry get caught up in this wicked game of theirs, of girding their hearts and forcing them into battle, joking and fighting and flirting and just trying desperately not to get hurt, that Harry loves him. That Harry’s always loved him, regardless of their relationship status, regardless of misunderstandings and heartbreak; regardless of whatever bullshit Louis throws at him, Harry’s always loved Louis as much as Louis loves him. 

Over the years- over a decade - the heady, needy, tug of  _ want _ , of love and endless, permanent, things has deepened, aged gently. They’ve both learnt to manage their yearnings- sex can be found easily, of course (Louis suspects that’s why Harry dated Camille)- and that urge for something  _ more _ can be found one phone call away, old jokes and gentle ribbing, words like ‘sweetheart’ and ‘baby’ tossed like particularly daring weaponry. They’ve both learnt to be content with texting and phone calls, with brief moments of shocking contact and occasionally Skype calls. But a  _ week _ or more at the bungalow, together. It terrifies him, if only because they’ve always fallen into each other far too easily.

“Louis?” Harry prompts, and Louis blinks, startled. “Right. Hi. Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“Thinking,” Harry deadpans, and then “You?”

“Fuck off,” Louis murmus, curling around the phone. “Love you.” He says, almost a throwaway comment, and Harry inhales sharply- Louis  _ hears _ it, the quick inhale, swift and surprised. “What- are you alright, Lou?”

“Oi,” Louis says, closing his eyes, and Harry laughs in his ear, soft and warm. “I’m kidding, Lou. Love you too.”

“Mmm,” Louis hums, and then “Is the fridge stocked in the bungalow, then? Only, I was promised breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

**Actual Official Members of 1D aka the Four Lads Who Stayed Until The Fucking End**

Louis:  _ Harry _

Louis:  _ HAROLD _

Louis:  _ KERMIT _

Harry:  _ Christ, what? _

Louis:  _ ha i knew that would work _

Harry: :(  _ I’m not Kermit _

Louis:  _ you’re LIVING a LIE but anyway i had a question _

Harry:  _ This better not be about how to work the stove again. _

Louis:  _ no but actually if you’re offering _

Harry:  _ I’ve explained the stove to you like, twenty times. _

Louis:  _ Nine at most but anyway whatever I had an actual, legitimate, question _

Harry:  _?? _

Louis:  _ So you know the actress in 10 Things I Hate About You _

Louis:  _ Her name is Julia Stiles _

Louis:  _ STILES _

Harry:  _ … What’s your question? _

Louis:  _ Nothing I just wanted to make that fact known _

Niall:  _ omg and their ship name would be Jerry Stiles _

Louis:  _ ^ fact. _

Harry:  _ No. _

Louis:  _ Do you know what always bothered me about haylor _

Niall:  _ besides the obvious? _

Louis:  _ that too. But mainly it was that the ship name wasn’t GOOD _

Louis:  _ They could’ve called you two Tarry Swiles. _

Louis:  _ A real missed opportunity there, is all I’m saying _

Liam:  _ ‘mainly it was the ship name’ lmao like you didn’t tape those Central Park pictures on a dartboard with Taylor’s face on the bulls-eye _

Louis:  _ you SAID you wouldn’t tell anyone you little shit _

Niall:  _ or could’ve gone the posh & becks route _

Louis:  _ styles & swift? _

Niall:  _ yesssss _

Harry:  _ A dartboard, Lou? _

Louis:  _ that literally never happened, liam is talking out of his arse _

Liam:  _ you accidentally hit Harry with one of the knives and then you started crying bc ‘what if it’s a sign’ and ‘does voodoo work’  _

Louis:  _ no. _

Harry:  _ Knives???? _

Niall:  _ 1) why was i never invited to that party and 2) swift isn’t that bad  _

Louis:  _ you filthy traitor _

Niall:  _ i was at one of her shows once, she was nice. _

Louis:  _ i know she’s NICE the point is when your best mate’s ex-boyfriend’s ex-beard asks you to sing at one of her shows you say NO _

Niall:  _ christ _

Liam:  _ christ _

Harry:  _ Christ. _

Louis:  _ good idea let’s talk about payno’s hair _

Niall: _Screaming, crying, perfect storms_

Niall:  _ I can make all the tables turn _

Niall:  _ Rose garden filled with thorns _

Niall:  _ Keep you second guessing like _

Niall:  _ "Oh, my God, who is she?" _

Niall:  _ I get drunk on jealousy _

Liam:  _ but you'll come back each time u leave _

Niall:  _ cause DARLING I’M A NIGHTMARE _

Liam:  _ DRESSED LIKE A DAYDREAM _

Harry:  _ Could we please stop quoting Taylor Swift lyrics? _

Niall:  _ but they’re CLASSIC _

Harry:  _ Yes but now Lou isn’t talking to you so _

Niall:  _ you’re so whipped omg _

Louis:  _ I’m going to ignore you said that _

Niall:  _ lol ok  _

Louis:  _ Anyway i’ve compiled a ranking of my favorite One D members _

Liam:  _ is this like when you ranked your sisters? _

Louis:  _ yes. Now pay attention _

Louis:  _ in first place is me obviously, in second place is liam, in third place is harry, in fourth place is niall  _

Niall:  _ harsh  _ :(

Harry:  _ Why am I behind Liam??? _

Louis:  _ it’s bc your face is stupid _

Louis:  _ sorry mate i don't make the rules _

Liam:  _ Except you basically do tho _

Louis:  _ it’s not me it’s the demons inside _

Harry:  _ What? _

Liam:  _ What _

Niall:  _ wut _

Louis:  _ what? _

Louis:  _ moving on, i’ve also ranked you in terms of good looks _

Niall:  _ i’m gonna ace this  _

Louis:  _ in 1st place is me as reigning champion, in second place is harry, in third place is ni and in fourth place is payno _

Niall:  _ yessss i win _

Liam:  _ you didn’t win you were third place _

Niall:  _ yeah but obvi Louis thinks H is more good-looking than we are, so the real contest is between you and me and mate, i won this one _

Liam: :(

Louis:  _ sorry li-li it’s the hair _

Niall:  _ TRICHOPHILIA _

Louis:  _ ACTUALLY NIALL IS IN FOURTH PLACE _

Liam:  _ ha. _

**Actual Official Members of 1D aka the Four Lads Who Stayed Until The Fucking End**

Liam:  _ hey guys _

Niall:  _ what  _

Louis:  _ wtf do you want _

Liam:  _ wow lou rude :( anyway i was just wondering shouldn’t we use the chat w/ z in it? _

Louis:  _ nothing’s stopping you, payno. _

Niall:  _ passive-aggressive much _

Louis:  _ fucks sake i was being polite _

Harry:  _ Lou, when have you ever been polite? _

Louis:  _ i’ve ALWAYS been polite. _

Harry:  _ yes baby _

Niall:  _ jhjkhkjhk omg OMG _

Liam:  _ GET A ROOM _

Niall:  _ or stay here it’s all good _

Louis:  _ i’m blocking you _

**Actual Official Members of 1D aka the Four Lads Who Stayed Until The Fucking End**

Liam:  _ two days until we meet at the bungalow lads!! _

Niall:  _ i’m soooo excited. _

Liam:  _ … I cant tell if that’s sarcasm or _

Louis:  _ ‘or’ _

Liam:  _ also what’s the PR strategy my publicist was busy when i called _

Louis:  _ i know but i don’t want to explain it _

Niall:  _ i would explain but since lou isn’t i’m not going to either _

Louis:  _ high five, lad _

Niall:  _ yay  _ :D

Liam:  _ ffs _

Harry:  _ i can explain _

Niall:  _ nooo _

Harry:  _ So, basically, there are four things. 1, we do an IG live like the one you and Niall did a few years back, and get people excited, stir up speculation etc etc. 2, the social media part. I’m supposed to do a ‘Not A Lot Going On At The Moment’ instagram post bc of what Taylor did w/ folklore, Louis is going to post one of the unreleased Four photos, Niall is going to do… something, I actually don’t remember, and you’re going to…. um, your publicist probably knows. 3, we get spotted having brunch somewhere in London. 4, I think James is going to do a video like he did for the Jonas Brothers. As in, a kidnapping one.  _

Niall:  _ can’t believe u only remembered lou’s info _

Niall:  _ actually i can but nvm _

Louis:  _ goddammit an Informed Payno is the WORST _

Liam:  _ all this hate directed towards me is unfair _

Niall:  _ lol the other day i was watching a ‘liam payne getting bullied’ video _

Louis:  _ was it  _ [ _ this _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7Kx8TMdZsE) _ one _

Niall:  _ YESSS OMG that one’s the best _

Liam:  _ NO. _

Harry:  _ I think I’ve watched that one. _

Louis:  _ watch it again it’s a classic _

Niall:  _ Niall, from one direction. Zayn, from one direction. Harry, from one direction. Liam, I CAN’T REACH _ .

Louis:  _ “dinosaurs mate, straight up” _

Niall:  _ “i didn’t know it got cold over here i thought it would be one of those countries thats always hot” _

Louis:  _ “i just picture australia” _

Niall:  _ “cause i always wonder what i look like on stage it was nice to actually have a look and be like oh it’s actually ok what i’m doing it wasn’t too bad” _

Louis: “ _ somebody put glue in my hat the other day” _

Niall:  _ okay but seriously the glue thing was epic _

Louis:  _ i thought it would rip all his hair out agonizingly but it didn’t work out  _ :(

Niall:  _ don’t worry tommo it was still beautiful _

Louis:  _ thx love  _ :)

Liam:  _ that was my favorite hat. my dad gave it to me before we left for tour _

Louis:  _ lol _

Niall:  _ lolllll _

Harry:  _ lol _

Louis: ^

Niall:  _ YOU DIDN’T CAPITALIZE WHAT IS THIS WORLD _

Harry:  _ *Lol. _

Louis:  _ okay first of all fuck you _

Niall:  _ ^  _

Louis:  _ no one wants your black and white pictures and your fucking fruit juices and your green smoothies and the AVOCADOS, christ  _

Louis:  _ insisting on spelling shit correctly jfc _

Liam:  _ preach, sister _

Louis:  _ [middle finger.emoji] _

  
  


**Actual Official Members of 1D aka the Four Lads Who Stayed Until The Fucking End**

Niall:  _ I’m flying in tonight _

Louis:  _ from Ireland? _

Niall:  _ from the motherland, yes _

Niall:  _ i’m psyched lads!!!  _

Louis:  _ aw _

Liam:  _ how come when I say i’m excited you refuse to tell me the pr strategy but when niall’s excited you say ‘aw’ _

Louis:  _ jesus fucking christ if it matters THAT much to you  _

Niall:  _ *because Niall is cuter _

Louis:  _ ^ _

Liam: :(  _ i dont feel valued _

Harry:  _ I value you, Liam _

Louis:  _ rude _

Liam:  _ HA _

Harry:  _ How was I rude? _

Louis:  _ i dont have to explain myself to you  _

Niall:  _ LMAOOOO yOU TWO _

Louis:  _ shut up niall your hair was better in 2011 and that’s not saying much _

Louis:  _ and DON’T say it _

Niall:  _ … TRICHOPHILIA _

Louis:  _ ffs _

Louis:  _ i don’t have a hair fetish and even i did it wouldn’t be directed to your dirty disgusting blah shit-brown hair _

Harry:  _ I have brown hair _

Louis:  _ yes but it’s not shit-colored _

Niall:  _ brown = brown  _

Liam:  _ we all have brown hair???? You have brown hair lou _

Louis:  _ mine is cinnamon colored _

Harry: ^

Louis:  _ and harry’s is too dark to be shit colored _

Harry:  _ Thanks, Lou. _

Louis:  _ but li and ni hate 2 break it u  _

Niall:  _ i don’t need your validation to feel fabulous _

Harry:  _ Yes, queen. _

Liam:  _ *yas queen _

Niall:  _ since when do you keep up with internet slang li _

Louis:  _ it’s bc of the jesus hair _

Liam:  _ ENOUGH ABOUT MY HAIR _

Harry:  _ How does Jesus hair correlate to internet slang? _

Louis:  _ ‘correlate’  _

Louis:  _ someone’s educated _

Niall:  _ it’s cuz jesus knows everything _

Louis: ^

**Private Message: Zayn**

Louis:  _ did you look at the song? _

Zayn:  _ ofc what do you take me for _

Louis: ??

Zayn:  _ yeah i was thinking we should get together and finish it. I’ve got a few ideas for lyrics written down but i need something more than the Voice Memo… what r you thinking for the backing track? _

Louis:  _ not a lot of production just the voices… was thinking instead of the actual word ‘cry’ we could have the sound of a water droplet _

Zayn:  _ sick man i was thinking sort of the same…  _

Zayn:  _ also here: _

Zayn:  [IMG.10271]

Louis:  _ so chorus, verse 1, pre-chorus, chorus, verse 2, pre-chorus, chorus, breakdown, bridge, chorus? what’re you thinking for the end? fade-out? _

Zayn:  _ yeah… what do you think about the lyrics? _

Louis:  _ you know they’re good you bastard _

Louis:  _ also when are we going to work on it i’m leaving for the bungalow tomorrow _

Zayn:  _ don’t worry about it  _ ;)

Louis:  _ i am suspicious of you _

Zayn: ;)

Louis:  _?????_

Zayn:  _ don’t WORRY about it okay relaaaax _

Louis:  _ i’m onto you but also i have to pack so bye _

  
  


**Actual Official Members of 1D aka the Four Lads Who Stayed Until The Fucking End**

Liam:  _ i’m at the bungalow lads!! h? _

Harry:  _ i’m at the shop be back soon _

Louis:  _ you better have food when i get in hazza _

Harry:  _ When are you getting in, Lou? _

Louis:  _ i’m driving in should be there in a few hours. _

Harry:  _ Don’t text and drive! _

Niall:  _ lol like he’s the one driving probably shanghaied alberto into driving him _

Niall:  _ i’m almost there btw _

Louis:  _ alberto would be grateful for the CHONCE to drive me _

Liam:  _ ffs not this again _

Niall:  _ noooo _

Louis:  _ we took a CHONCE _

Louis:  _ God knows we tried _

Liam:  _ yet all along i knew we’d be fine _

Harry:  _ Lou seriously are you driving _

Louis:  _ [IMG.10278] _

Niall:  _ knew it _

Niall:  _ that’s the back of Alberto’s head right there i’d recognize it anywhere _

Niall:  _ IM IN CHESHIRE LADS IM ALMOST HEEEEREEE _

Niall:  _ i’m outside _

Liam:  _ ha louis is the only one not here HA  _

Louis:  _ i expect a king’s welcome. _

The air outside is crisp, grave clouds gathered in gauzy reflection of an aureole. The drive through the streets is discreet- Louis is well-hidden by the tinted windows - and purring, Alberto easily guiding the car through winding roads. Everything is easy, easy, easy and Louis can’t breathe.

Harry. Bungalow. Harry. Breathe.

“Alberto,” Louis says, suddenly, coughing, “How far is Doncaster from ‘ere? Could we-”

“No.” Alberto says, patient. 

“But-”

“No.”

“I employ you!” Louis yelps, because he never really pulls the rank card but sometimes, one has to be a prick to get results.

“Hmm.” Alberto yawns, and Louis presses his face in between the passenger and driver’s seat, pleading. “ _ Al.  _ Please. What do you want? My Netflix password? A bonus? Me to stop doing stupid shit?  _ Anything _ .”

“We’re almost there.” Alberto says, cheerily. 

Louis whimpers, flopping back in the backseat. His suitcase is in the trunk, his bag slung in the seat next to him. 

His EP, which he’d stress-called Zayn about a total of five times, is tucked neatly into the hidden pocket in his backpack. Bruce and Cliff are at Eleanor’s house. Outside, the clouds twist in neat, ranging, spirals, silvery and beautiful.

  
  


“ _ LOUEH! _ ” Niall shrieks as soon as he knocks on the door. There’s a moment of breathless silence, his smile caught on the pinned edges of a butterfly’s wing, and then the door is flinging open. Louis drops his bags and launches himself into Niall’s arms.

“I’ve missed you too, mate.” Niall coughs. Louis buries his face in Niall’s neck, and Niall murmurs, lower: “Save it for H, why don’t you?”

“Fuck off,” Louis scowls, loosening his legs from around Niall’s waist and sliding off neatly. Liam is behind Niall, smiling, and Louis throws himself forward again, arms tightening around Liam’s neck. He’s so fucking  _ muscular _ everywhere, Christ. 

“You need to  _ stop _ going to the gym.” Louis informs him, flicking his ear harshly. Liam makes a sound of protest, but Louis ignores that, sliding down Liam’s body and making his way forward.

Harry is standing behind Liam, gorgeous and unbothered in a frilly apron. The dark curl of his hair, a lock of his hair falling perfectly betwixt his brows, the wide-set green eyes, the full spread of his wine-colored mouth, candy-pink and enticing.

“First one to get my bags to my room gets third place in the rankings.” Louis says, eyes fixed on Harry. There’s a scuffle behind him, and he sees, peripherally, Liam sprinting for his room with Niall on his back, grabbing at the bags. Louis doesn’t pay them any attention.

Louis launches himself at Harry twice as hard, determined to at least somewhat muss him. No one’s allowed to have hair that perfect, it’s both unfair and illegal.

Harry doesn’t even stumble, arms catching Louis neatly, a hand sliding down to cup his  [ arse ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinsons+bum&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01M03kA4SXto4hNPh-h22IBeiegwQ:1610838780343&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwisoauKyqHuAhWVKn0KHWeYCjcQ_AUoAXoECBYQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=Zy2R-gHrPgbIOM) . Louis allows it, because he’s feeling generous. “Hello, there.” Harry laughs, slow and distractingly deep. He talks so  _ slow _ , all the damn  _ time _ , God. It’s really fucking infuriating.

“You irritate me.” Louis says, muffled, into Harry’s neck. He smells good too, amber and Tom Ford cologne and baking.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Harry murmurs, lip catching along the shell of Louis’ ear. 

“You should be.” Louis mutters, burying his face in Harry’s neck briefly before extracting himself. Discipline. 

“I was promised breakfast, wasn’t I?” He says, brightly. Harry blinks.

“It’s 3 p.m.”

“Your point is?” Louis says, arching a brow. Harry watches him for a moment, and then smiles, a slow curve of lips and teeth. “Nothing. What would you like for breakfast?”

“Things,” Louis says, vaguely. “Nice apron.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Harry says, mockingly. Louis blows him a kiss and slides across the room, climbing up smoothly to sit on the counter. “My breakfast won’t make itself, Harold.”

“Of course not.” Harry says easily, ambling towards him. Louis watches, silent, as Harry opens the fridge, slides out a carton of eggs, and cracks them into a blue bowl, the interplay of musculature under his skin fascinating and really, really, unfair.

“I hate eggs.” Louis says, abruptly, just as Harry pours the eggs into a hot pan. Harry stills, turning his head to raise an unimpressed brow.

“That’s unfortunate,” Harry sighs, plucking a spatula from a drawer. “I’m sure Niall will be happy to eat them.”

“Niall wouldn’t dare.” Louis says immediately, sliding off the counter and wrapping his arms around Harry. “I missed you.” He murmurs into Harry’s neck, inhaling.

“Missed you more.” Harry says, just as quiet. They stay like that for a while, the glow of another kitchen-afternoon wrapping around them. 

  
  
  


Maybe, Louis reflects two days later, he should have planned this better.

He and Harry are hiding in the laundry room, squeezing pink dye onto all of Liam’s white shirts. That’s not the problem- the prank’s going fine, and Liam will be devastated. The problem is. Is. Harry.

They’ve fallen into old patterns- not 2017 old.  _ 2010 _ old - curling up together on the couch, pranking Liam, sneaking away to sprawl out together in empty rooms, whispering and giggling. It’s not the  _ same _ , of course- 2010 Harry and Louis couldn’t have possibly felt or even understood the weight of unimaginable history burdening them now, were even unused to the electricity sparking along their veins when Harry traces a slow finger down Louis’ neck, when Louis curls up on top of Harry, legs splayed around his thighs. 

It’s the bungalow. It has to be the bungalow, exerting its strange magic on them and forcing them close, close, closer. Some strange feat of nostalgia, maybe. 

“Lou?” 

Louis blinks, startled out of his thoughts. “What is it?”

“You’ve been doing that a lot, haven't you?” Harry asks, head propped on his knees. His eyes are curious.

“Drifting off, I mean.” Harry prompts.

Louis tilts his head, watching the green of his eyes, the glow that moves behind the curtain. “Is there something you’d like to ask me?”

“No,” Harry says, ducking his head to paint more dye along the neckline of a white polo. He glances up again, lips curving. “Just noticed, is all.”

“Alright,” Louis says, softly, and they could be anywhere, at any time, this could be any year imaginable and Louis would believe it. Harry’s hair hidden by a beanie, his eyes so glowing and his smile so unburdened, pranks and knit sweaters and laughter. It’s so strange, Louis realises- he has so much history with Harry. He’s spent over a third of his  _ life _ by Harry’s side, everything is so strange when put into perspective by such exacting instruments as numbers. 

“Hazza,” Louis says suddenly, and Harry glances up. “Mm?”

“You’ve got-” Louis leans forward, thumb brushing slowly and definitively across the sweep of pink paint on Harry’s chin. “Thanks, Lou.” Harry murmurs, eyes infinite and glowing, angling precisely into Louis’.

“You’re welcome.” Louis murmurs back, and settles back on his knees to paint the rest of Liam’s shirt pink.

  
  
  


“We haven’t done Niall yet.” Harry says the next day. They’re curled up on the couch together, Louis absently knotting Harry’s curls together with tiny elastics he’d discovered in the bathroom cabinet.

“Nor do I ever want to,” Louis says, poking indignantly at Harry’s scalp. “Sometimes, I sit back and think to myself  _ lad, the one thing you can say for yourself is this: you haven’t fucked Niall, thank Christ _ -”

“Ha-ha,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and batting Louis’ hand away. Louis goes back to tying the elastics, infuriated. “No, I mean, like. Prank-wise.”

Louis glances up. “Hair.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Isn’t that too-”

“Nothing’s  _ too _ -” Louis objects.

“No, but he really-”

“The band’s together, it makes sense-”

“If Niall gets mad-”

“I’ll blame it all on you, I know.” Louis finishes, rolling his eyes. Harry sighs, aggravated. “I’ll order the bleach.”

  
  


The bleach comes in a tidy package a few days later. Louis answers the door in Harry’s frilly apron, smiling winningly at the shocked Amazon delivery-woman. 

“Hazza, c’mere.” He calls, hiding the package from Liam, who’s Skyping Maya.

Harry skids through the hallway, blinking. He’s in a dark green henley and flannel pajama bottoms, the hems brushing the tops of his feet. 

Silently, Louis raises the package, arching a brow in invitation.

Harry’s eyes light up.

They steal away to the laundry room.

“He’s bleached his hair before, okay, he’ll know what it smells like.” Harry hisses, shaking the packet of bleach in emphasis. “Bleach doesn’t  _ smell _ like anything,” Louis rolls his eyes. “It smells like a very concentrated mixture of nothing, if anything-”

“Yeah, exactly, and shampoo smells like- I dunno, flowers, so he’ll notice the lack of smell-”

“We’ll mix it in the existing shampoo, Hazza, it’s not that hard. Give it.”

Sighing, Harry hands it over and Louis mentally fist-pumps in victory.

“Retrieve the shampoo bottle, servant.” Louis orders, and Harry chokes out a soft laugh and goes, bounding back a few minutes later with two bottles.

“I’m not sure which one is his,” Harry says in explanation, shrugging.

Louis considers each, peering intently at the plasticine labeling, before shrugging irreverently. “We’ll put it in both, then.”

“Lou-  _ Lou _ !” Harry laughs, tugging the shampoo bottles away from him. “We can’t do that, Liam would look fucking awful with bleached hair.”

Louis blinks at him, slowly. “That’s the fucking  _ point _ ,” Louis says, over-enunciating. “And,” He adds, “That Jesus-lookalike bastard cunt deserves it.”

Harry’s smiling. “Is this the tea thing again?”

Louis releases a short and heartfelt scream of utter pique, setting the bleach down forcefully. “He fucking-” He inhales, sharply, trying to calm down. “My  _ tea _ , Harry. He put a fookin’  _ cup _ of sugar and about  _ two gallons _ of milk in  _ my _ tea.”

“Two gallons, huh?” Harry says softly, a hand curling around his neck, thumb skating around the edge of Louis’ chin. Louis ignores it, continuing “And ‘e had the nerve to  _ laugh _ when I spit it out. No, no, he did it on purpose, the little shit.”

“Lou,” Harry says, mouth a breath away from his, and Louis goes still, utterly aware of his body, terror and  _ want _ gripping his body. Louis looks up at him, wide blue eyes and fallen-open mouth, deer-in-headlights.

Slowly, the dreamlike wash of unawareness rolling gently through his veins, Louis inhales. He’s dizzy, slightly, the taste of Harry’s breath (Trident spearmint gum, he notes absently) sweetening the inside of his mouth, but he knows this- they can’t. 

“Harry,” Louis says, shaking his head slowly. “Bleach.”

Harry stills, moves away from him. “I- right. Bleach.”

  
  


“MY HAIR.”

“You look fabulous, Nialler.” Louis grins.

“MY HAIR.”

“It’s got weird little- patches, look.” Liam snorts, flicking at Niall’s hair.

“MY HAIR.” Niall wails.

Harry frowns, biting at his lip. “Why’d it do that?”

“YOU ARE DEAD TO ME.”

“I think he rubbed it in weirdly,” Liam says, peering at it.

“I  _ swore in 2016 that I’d never bleach again. _ ”

“That, or Harry didn’t mix it right.” Louis comments, tilting his head. They’re gathered in a loose semicircle around Niall, who’s sprawled face-down on the carpet, weeping.

“I wasn’t the one who mixed it!” Harry protests, slinging an arm around him. Louis relaxes into it, closing his eyes and tilting his head toward Harry’s neck. “Yes, you were.” He says into Harry’s shirt, closing his eyes.

Harry says nothing, smoothing a hand down Louis’ head, a thumb pressing into the nape of his neck. Louis arches into it, and Harry inhales, a ragged sound.

“I don’t even want to know.” Niall says, muffled in the carpet. Liam starts coughing.

“Harry,” Louis says, straightening slightly. Harry stares at him, patient. “Yes?”

Louis leans in, kisses his cheek, and slides away gleefully. “Call Lou,” He says over his shoulder.

“Lou- Lou Teasedale?” Harry says, blankly, a hand already fumbling for his phone. 

“For Niall’s hair.” Louis explains, bending and patting Niall’s head.

“Thought you hated her.” Liam points out, nudging Louis with his toe. Louis slaps it away without looking. 

“Why would he hate Lou?” Harry interjects, sounding confused.

Louis looks up, fringe falling in his eyes. “She did  [ that interview talking about how we all used to cheat on our ‘girlfriends’ with the tour staff and then fire them ](https://www.popbuzz.com/music/artists/one-direction/news/lou-teasdale-harry-styles-louis-tomlinson-sex/) .”

“She did  _ what _ ?”

Louis arches a brow. “You didn’t see?”

“But,” Harry says, sounding genuinely upset now, “But. It’s  _ Lou _ . She- How-”

Louis stands, crossing the brief distance and curling himself around Harry. Harry, disillusioned with the world, is something he hates. Sometimes- curled around Harry, an afghan spread over them two and a thread of horrible, homophobic, tweets open on the iPad - Louis thought he could have ripped the world apart, if only so Harry wouldn’t get that fucking  _ look _ in his eye, that dull, tarnished, gleam, as if he had been born with expectations and they had not been met.

“Sometimes that just happens, Haz.” Louis says, and it doesn’t feel like enough.

  
  


* * *

__

Interlude: 2014 

__

_  
_

“Haz,” Louis says, reaching for him, and he pauses, setting down his phone. Louis sees the contact name:  _ Nick _ . He pushes down the involuntary flash of jealousy; it’s routine, by now.

“Hey, baby.” Harry murmurs, hands sliding into his hair. Louis relaxes, pliant, fuck- he just wants  _ Harry _ , okay-

“Boys, not today,  _ please _ .” Lou’s polished hand flits between them, pulls them apart. He blinks, disoriented. “A few minutes, please-” He begs.

“Louis, your  _ hair _ , you have a performance in half an hour and Zayn’s gone missing somewhere. I don’t have time to fix it later.”

Louis closes his eyes, inhales. “But-”

“Baby,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Baby, it’s fine. I’ll see you- later?”

“Right.” Louis says, swallowing. He reaches out, tangles their fingers together briefly before letting Lou lead him back to the mirror. Before he closes his eyes, he sees Harry reach for his phone again, sees the flat glow of the screen play on his face. He swallows again, gritting his teeth.

The performance is- fine, it’s always fine, he makes Niall laugh and Harry grinds up on Zayn and that’s- fine. Sometimes, it makes him irrationally angry, how easily rumors are disregarded when it comes to Harry, how labels like ‘gay’ and ‘bisexual’ slide off him like water. And that’s  _ stupid _ , and he’s being a shit boyfriend, but he knows if he were to grind up against Liam or say “ _ I’d do Niall _ ” he’d be burnt alive in the press. 

What  _ is _ it about him, what the  _ fuck _ is it? The way their eyes cut into him, it makes him want to claw off his skin, to stand under scalding water until he’s pink and crying. Or maybe it’s that the world loves Harry, while it’s always been largely indifferent to Louis, and it’s quick to ‘protect’ Harry from all accusations against his heterosexual honor. Fuck, he’s being  _ such _ an arse, God, he needs to  _ stop _ . But he remembers, briefly, the braces and colorful tight pants and being allowed to giggle, to hold his wrist a certain way or bat his eyelashes, and he wants to vomit.

“Louis?” 

Louis blinks, turning his face upwards. He’s curled up on the couch, knees propping up his chin, showered and changed into black skinnies and an old raglan tee. Zayn’s standing there, looking worried. “What is it?” Louis asks, indifferently. 

“We’re all going out- the lads, I mean. Grimmy and some of Harry’s bunch might be meeting up with us there.”

‘Might be’ means ‘definitely’. Louis closes his eyes. Everything feels dry and tired, the walls closing in on him and he’s  _ sore _ , wrung-out and exhausted, but he gets up anyway.

“Should I,” Louis waves a hand vaguely. “Change.”

“Might do.” Zayn says, patting him on the shoulder. He strides to the open suitcase. “The jeans can stay, but wear this shirt instead.” Louis glances at it. It’s black and thin, capped sleeves and so worn it’s almost sheer in some places. 

“Right.” Louis says, shortly. “Hey,” Zayn murmurs, eyes concerned, “You alright, Lou? If you don’t feel up for it-”

“I’m  _ fine _ .” Louis says, too-sharp.

Separate cars, fifteen minute intervals, he knows the drill. He doesn’t get to see Harry before he ducks into a car- tinted windows and Zayn and weed, the best it gets.

“Are things alright with H?” Zayn says, waving a smoking hand about the backseat.

Louis glances up, eyes narrowed. “Why wouldn’t things be alright? Why, ‘ave you heard something?”

Zayn raises his brows, and Louis slumps forward, groaning. “Sorry,” He says, muffled. “I’m being shitty, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Does H know?” Zayn says, softly, petting Louis’ hair. Louis makes a brief, aborted, sound. “What is there to know? I’m being a dick because- because I’m a dick. Shouldn’t be news to him, innit.”

“Hey,” Zayn murmurs, pinching him gently. “That’s me best mate you’re talking about there.”

Louis smiles, weakly.

  
  


Harry’s dancing when they get in. Louis spots him immediately, the glow of his skin and tattoos, head tossed back. The stricken gleam of his throat, bare and defiantly exposed, the sway of his hips, uncoordinated and inviting- this boy could wreck him, Louis’ sure. He wants-

“Hey,” Paul says, a hand on his shoulder. “Management told me to tell you- you can’t be seen dancing together.”

“What,” Louis says, flatly. He’s too far gone to be disbelieving; it’s just another  _ shit _ thing to happen today. Of course this is going to be one of those nights. Jesus.

Paul’s eyes are apologetic. “I’m sorry, Louis.”

_ You’re not fucking sorry, _ Louis wants to scream in front of all these people _ , If you were fucking sorry you wouldn’t be taking their fucking orders. _

“Sorry.” Louis repeats. He nods, once, and slides off to the bar, ordering himself a drink. He’s going to be a mature adult and stay on the fucking sidelines. He’s going to try not to disappoint every single fucking person responsible for him, for once. 

(He breaks his own promises within the hour.)

It’s not his fault, okay, because Grimmy is grinding up on Harry and he  _ knows _ that Harry loves him, that Harry wouldn’t do anything- more importantly, he  _ trusts _ Harry. And that’s- great. But it’s one thing to put these things into perspective and think about the big picture, and quite another to see someone else’s hands on  _ his _ Harry,  _ his _ boy.

_ You can’t be seen dancing together. _

_ Fuck _ this,  _ fuck _ management and  _ fuck _ Paul and  _ fuck _ Nick  _ fucking _ Grimshaw, Louis thinks, hand tightening on the shot glass.

And then Harry laughs, tilts his hips just so against Nick’s, shimmying closer, all graceless limbs and suggestive swaying. Louis watches, eyes burning.

It’s just fucking  _ dancing _ , Christ. 

Except, Louis thinks, except he and Harry are never allowed alone, he and Harry can never be seen together, and what if Harry’s getting  _ tired _ of it all- tired of hiding and waiting for a reprieve that never comes. Harry doesn’t want to come out but that doesn’t mean he can’t find someone else, someone  _ easier _ . It’d be easy to come out with Grimmy, Louis knows, because of how well-liked they are. Grimmy’s out already and no one gives a fuck; he suspects the same will be true of Harry. 

What if, Louis thinks, and then gets tired of what-if’s. Harry’s got his hands around Grimmy’s neck, and they’re laughing, faces close to each other, and this night is  _ shit _ , everything’s  _ shit _ and he just wants to cry somewhere dark and never come out again. There’s a part of him that wants to stride into the crowd, wants to shove Grimmy off and slide into his place, but. But he knows what that’ll result in, knows the particular brand of disappointment in his team’s eyes, can’t stand explaining that the reason he almost outed them was because he’s a jealous fucking toddler who can’t handle watching his boyfriend  _ dance _ with anyone else.

He slides off his seat, leaving the glass relatively untouched on the counter. The crowd is thronging, and it’s difficult to shove his way through but he manages it, nodding to Alberto as he nears the exit.

“Alright, Louis?” Alberto asks, peeling away from the door and covering him, and Louis nods, shortly. He doesn’t feel like talking.

The night’s still young when he gets back to the hotel. Louis finds his room easily- he usually takes Harry’s, but he can’t, tonight. The key-card swipes easily, and he slides into his room, closes the door and locks the chain, closing it swiftly.

“I hate everything.” He says, loudly, and then sets about locating the bathroom. There is, in fact, a bathtub, and he immediately turns it up as far as it can get, steaming water pouring into the gleaming porcelain.

Louis yanks off his clothes viciously, hating the halfway-sheer black shirt for all it represents: want and the lack of consummation, stupid hopes and stupid endings. The jeans take more time, but he manages to peel them off eventually, clambering into the bath and sinking down with a hissed curse. The water stings his skin, of course it does. 

It  _ hurts _ , and he relishes in it, wants every ounce of pain it brings him. He wants the red marks, his skin looking freshly-slapped, because he can almost pretend it’s from Harry’s hands instead of scalding water.

Louis bangs his head against the porcelain. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ ,  _ fucking shit _ .”

His head swims with the pain, dizzying and fleeting. Abruptly, the images fly across the tangible surface of his mind with vicious and startling intensity: Harry’s hands on Nick, their bodies moving sinuously together, Taylor’s hand slipped in Harry’s, Kendall’s smirks and Sara’s doe-eyes and Paige’s eyelashes. How little time they’re allotted for each other. Being torn apart from him again and  _ again _ , bereft of lazy moments and sweet nothings. He wants  _ Harry _ and he wants Harry to be  _ his _ , publicly and privately, and that’s all it’s ever come down to, really, but it’s damning regardless. He sinks his nails into his skin, wanting to tear himself apart. “ _ Fuck. _ ”

Louis scrubs himself down quickly. There are a variety of scents in the little shelf- vanilla, grapefruit, rose - and he grabs them at random, pouring them on his skin and scrubbing, wanting to rid himself of everything. Just- God.

He washes his hair, too, digging his fingers into his scalp and viciously tugging through knots. The water’s not as hot as it used to be; it’s useless for the purpose of hurting himself. He rinses himself off, pulls the plug, watches the water slide down the drain.

There’s a song from The 1975, one he can’t quite remember the lyrics to.  _ Somebody Else _ . He finds it on his phone, plays it. 

_ So I heard you found somebody else / And at first I thought it was a lie / I took all my things that make sounds / The rest I can do without. _ Louis curls up on his armchair, head on his elbows, and listens.

It’s not that he thinks Harry  _ is _ cheating on him, emotionally or physically, or that Harry would ever. Harry- possessive, worshipping,  _ good _ \- isn’t capable of something like that. He just- he doesn’t know.

_ I'm looking through you while you're looking through your phone / And then leaving with somebody else / No, I don't want your body / But I'm picturing your body with somebody else. _

Except he  _ does _ want Harry’s body, that’s what’s wrong, he just can’t have it. 

_ Get someone you love / Get someone you need / Fuck that, get money / I can’t give you my soul cause we’re never alone. _

We’re never alone, we’re never alone, I want you, leaving with somebody else, it curdles tightly in his mind, an intricacy of jealousy and torment.

_ I don’t want your body / But I hate to think about you with somebody else / Our love has gone cold, you’re intertwining your soul with somebody else. I’m looking through you while you’re looking through your phone / And then leaving with somebody else / No, I don’t want your body / But I’m picturing your body with somebody else. _

He falls asleep swiftly and dreamlessly.

  
  


The next day, he’s scrolling through his phone during the water break, aimlessly liking fan tweets, when Harry slides next to him, hopeful and smiling. “Hey, baby.” Harry nudges him forward, curling his body expertly under Louis’, all warm limbs and sweaty hair. Harry has his nose pressed to his scalp, inhaling. “You smell good.”

Louis makes a vague noise of thanks and drops the phone on his chest. Harry’s body behind him is comforting, familiar and electric. “Where were you last night?” Harry continues, sweeping a slow hand down the side of his body. Louis stills, trying his best not to react to the touch, the words.

“Hotel.” He answers, turning his face into Harry’s shirt. Harry makes a soft noise of confusion. “Zayn said you came to the club, though.”

“Well,” Louis says after a moment, “Didn’t exactly fancy watching you and Grimmy fuck on the dance-floor.” He wants to take back the words as soon as he utters them, because he knows he’s being irrational. Harry loves him and him only; he’s never been uncertain about that fact. Harry wants him and him only; that, too, is immutable. It’s everything, it’s nothing, it’s being the first image that pops up when someone searches up “gay wrist” and not being able to touch his boyfriend. He wants to die, sometimes.

Harry stiffens against him, and Louis closes his eyes. “Sorry.” He says after a moment. “That wasn’t- fair, or whatever. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Lou,” Harry says stiffly, “You know I wouldn’t-”

“Yes, fuck, I  _ know _ .” Louis snaps, and suddenly he’s so- furious, because Harry  _ could _ , is the thing, could fuck a random bloke and probably not even have to worry about NDA’s and everything would be fine and he’s  _ so shit _ but he’s  _ angry _ and he wants everything he can’t have  _ so badly _ . He wriggles sharply out of Harry’s arms, standing swiftly.

“I’m going to- loo.” Louis says, unconvincingly. He sounds short and angry. (He  _ is _ short and angry,  _ ha-ha _ .)

“Lou!”

Louis ducks around the nearest corner and darts through several hallways, finding a small and out-of-the-way room. He hides there for the rest of the water break.

Rehearsals are- fine, and they’ve another performance tonight and he’s tired and he wants to- he wants so much he can’t verbalize any of it. Harry keeps shooting him little glances and Louis knows they should talk but he doesn’t  _ want _ to, and surely he can have at least  _ one _ thing he wants. 

Instead, he curls up in Zayn’s side and steals his cigarettes. Zayn knows something’s wrong, but he’s a proper mate, doesn’t ask any questions and hands over the cigs with a resigned expression.

“H is coming over,” Zayn says, an hour from showtime, and Louis makes a horrified sound, pushing himself further into Zayn’s side. “Hide me with your muscular body, Malik.”

“He’s- he’s literally - he can probably hear us by now.” Zayn finishes, resigned. He nudges Louis, gently. “Hey, H.”

“Zayn.” Harry nods, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Can I talk to Lou?”

“Ask him yourself.” Zayn says, slightly unfriendly. Louis loves Zayn so much, he’s the best.

“Lou,” Harry says, and by now hiding his face in Zayn’s armpit seems cowardly, and so Louis glances up and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Harry looks so good, is the thing- striped button-down loose to the panes of his chest, fingernails painted black, a cross around his neck (the golden parabola of the chain disrupted by the shallow ridges of his collarbone) and loose tangles of dark hair. Louis’ been in joggers and a sweater the entire day, hair styled in spiky ruffles and the skin under his eyes a thin, papery, pink. 

“Hello, Harold.” Louis says, blandly. Harry looks upset. “Lou, can I talk to you in private?”

Louis glances at Zayn. Zayn gives a faint but imperceptible shrug;  _ can’t help you with this one, sorry _ . “I- yeah, alright.” Louis says, shortly, running a hand through his hair and detangling himself from Zayn.

Harry leads them into a relatively private corner, the walls extended with stacks of equipment and boxes, a curtain of some cheap black cloth obscuring the ugly stucco. Louis wants to be anywhere but here.

“Louis.” Harry says, and then pauses. “Louis. I  _ know _ you know I’d never- all I’ve wanted since I was 16 is you.” And that’s- the exact sort of thing Louis had thought he would say, sentiment and sweet, unguided, devotion. It doesn’t fix anything, but it’s not Harry’s to fix, because Harry  _ can’t _ fix it. Louis doesn’t expect him to. It’s not his fault. Louis just wants someone to be mad at, and that’s not fair, but nothing’s fair here.

“I know.” Louis says, closing his eyes and knocking his head against the wall. “You’re fine. I’m being an arse. Great. Glad we established that. Look, I have to change into concert clothes, so-”

Harry grabs his arm, the grip tight enough to make him  _ feel _ it, the ridges and muscles of Harry’s palm through the fabric of the sweater. He could probably escape if he wanted to. He doesn’t move.

“ _ Louis _ . I- You’re mad at me. Did I do something besides-” Harry hesitates, green eyes scanning his face. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing.” Louis says, and when Harry scoffs, he amends it: “Everything.”

“Everything,” Harry repeats, soft. “Might want to narrow it down a bit, Lou.”

“It’s  _ so  _ stupid.” Louis whispers, eyes fixed on the cross swinging from Harry’s neck. The pale column of his neck, the burning color of the chain, the clean lines of the cross. “I, genuinely, it’s- I can - I don’t need - I can figure it out myself, just give me some fucking time.”

“You don’t  _ have _ to, baby.” Harry murmurs, gentle. He’s so  _ good _ , fuck, it makes him feel like utter  _ shit _ for his resentment.  _ I just want to be allowed to be gayer, okay? _ Can he say that, even? He’s so tired of hesitation, but he can’t lose what little he has. Chinaware balanced carefully across shaking spread palms. 

“It’s. I just. You were dancing with Grimshaw, yeah, but it’s not that, even, it’s that you’re. You’re allowed to do that. Because.” Louis inhales, and he feels the tremulous tide of it behind his eyes, constricting his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. Everything feels on the verge of breaking apart, water trembling behind a dam. 

“You’re just  _ so _ \- everyone loves you, Harry. God knows I love you so bad it  _ hurts _ sometimes. And that’s- fantastic, wonderful, and you can go to gay bars with your beard and no one gives a shit, and there are blogs dedicated to how my fake relationship is fake and I want to be allowed to wear something that isn’t  _ fucking _ denim and muscle tees, okay, like, can I just, why can’t I-” He’s fumbling now, words high and shaking, and he’s not making sense. God, he doesn’t know what he’s  _ saying _ . 

Louis pauses, attempts to parse meaning from what he’s just word-vomited, and then gives up. “It’s stupid. Fuck. But like, if you Google ‘gay wrist’, I’m the first image there, and I hate that. And that sounds- fucking homophobic or some shit, but that’s  _ why _ I can’t- it’s because of shit like  _ that _ I can’t- and I’m so - and I just. Want. Um. I can’t, I want-” He presses the bones of his wrist into his eyes, tremors running through him. 

Everything’s dark, and he’s crying, he thinks. In  _ public _ , sort of. The hush of conversation around them, people walking with purpose and makeup artists wielding their instruments of choice. The boys, Zayn and Niall and Liam, are somewhere, and he’s  _ crying _ , cosseted in the darkness of this corner, Harry’s hands still gripping his biceps.

“Baby.” Harry’s voice, the warmth of his body growing distantly closer, blocking him from the rest of the world. “Baby, please let me see your face.”

“No.” Louis whispers, sniffling slightly. Harry laughs softly, curving his body closer. Louis can’t see but he can feel that much, feel the shimmering heat around Harry meld to his body.

Slowly, he lets Harry tug his hands away from his face. Harry’s leaning down, long body a lean line obscuring the field of his vision. “That’s not stupid at all, Lou.” Harry says, sounding genuinely upset. “I’m so- it makes me  _ sick _ to think you didn’t think this was important enough to tell me, because it is. I always want to know what you’re feeling, even the actual stupid shit like- like your feelings about various American breakfast cereals. This isn’t stupid at all, Lou. I didn’t-” Harry stops here, face twisting. “I never thought about how- how shitty it is for you. I’m. God, I’m the worst boyfriend.”

“You’re not the worst boyfriend.” Louis says, softly. 

“I  _ am _ , though,” Harry insists, getting more upset, drawing himself up. His eyes are shining with a film of veiled salt. “Fuck. And I’ve been fucking- swanning around gay clubs, haven’t I, and you can’t come with me, because- fuck. Oh, God.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Louis says, letting his head thunk into Harry’s chest. “You’re allowed to go to gay clubs. Just because I’m not allowed to-”

“If I’m  _ allowed _ to go to gay clubs, so are  _ you _ \- God, I hate that, I hate that they have to  _ allow _ us to do this shit. Jesus. And I didn’t- I never thought.” Harry falls silent, words twisting in on each other. His brow’s furrowed, everything about his face- the prow of his nose, the set of his brows, the deep pout of his mouth - wracked with a horrified sort of sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, dully, because the last thing he wants to do, ever, is hurt Harry.

“ _ I’m _ sorry,” Harry says, shaking his head, gathering Louis in his arms. “I’m sorry, Lou. I’ll be better-”

“No.” Louis says, tiredly, because the second-last thing he wants to do is dim Harry’s glow, be the one to impose restrictions and set parameters. That would be almost worse, like bringing a bird inside- it would love you and groom your hair and accept affection, but as soon as you weren’t watching, its eyes would stray to the window. To the enticing, fretful, drape of the sky. He doesn’t want to be a- he doesn’t want to be a jailer, and in the end, that’s what it comes down to.

“I could-”

“ _ No _ , Harry.” Louis snaps. Harry falls silent, and they rock there for hours or minutes. He can’t tell. There’s a tiny, infinite, eternity in between one moment and the next, caught between one breath and another. He’s so tired. 

(And they go on stage that night and they perform and it’s good. They’re moving on before long, another-day-another-drama, but a part of him remains caught up there, the black curtain and the shaking and Harry’s hands curled around his wrists, trying not to cry because nothing’s fair, not any of it.)

  
  


* * *

Lou Teasedale knocks on the door approximately forty-minutes later, hairdressing kit in hand. Louis answers the door, tight smile and empty gratitude. Here’s the thing: he knows her, he loved her once, in the way they loved all the tour staff back then like their families. Even Louis, the most cautious and wary of them all, had opened up like a flower to their attentions. They were so fucking innocent back then, he still shudders to think about it, how completely and wholly they loved. Gradually, so gradually, they’ve had to learn how to separate the trustworthy from the false, the kind from the  _ nice _ , skimming pans of gold from the dross. Alberto is trustworthy. Paul is trustworthy. Lou’s slightly more complicated- she  _ cares _ for them, but Louis stopped trusting her the second that article aired.

“Niall’s gotten into a bit of a situation, as you might ‘ave heard.” He explains on the way to the living room. When they’re a few steps away, he pauses, fixes Lou with a hard stare. He knows full well how unnerving it is, the piercing flash of blue eyes narrowing into your own. God knows he’s used to it from his sisters.

“I don’t think I need to tell you this,” He begins, “But then again, I didn’t think I needed to tell you not to talk shit about us to fookin’  _ Pop Buzz  _ back then, and look what happened.”

Lou flinches- physically flinches, silvery hair ashy against her whitening face. “I didn’t mean- they twisted a lot of my words-” Lou tries to interject, but Louis cuts her off with a sharp movement of his wrist. 

“I don’t give a shit. You still said them. It’s been years, yeah, fine. But if you  _ breathe _ a word of anything that happens here, I will make sure you will never be able to work in this industry again. Do you understand me?” He enunciates, accent kept at bay. It’s strange, of course it’s strange- he’s used to seeing her as an older-sister kind of figure, always fussing over them and giving them haircuts and tea - but he’s never let anything stop him from defending his own. This, jarring as it, won’t be the first.

“Of course not,” Lou whispers, turning her face down momentarily. “I- I would never-”

“But, you did.” Louis cuts in, sharply.

“I thought I- I thought I could take some of the heat off of you, make people stop focusing on you and H, make them start thinking-”

“That we were bastards who cheated on our girlfriends with the staff and then got them fired? Yeah, really appreciated tha’, didn’t we.”

“I’m sorry.” Lou says. Louis blinks at her, eyes steely. “Promise me.”

“Louis,” Harry says from behind him, a warm hand over his collarbone, “C’mon, sweetheart. You don’t-” Louis presses a hand to his mouth, shushing him, eyes fixed on Lou.

“I promise.” Lou says, quickly.

“Good.” Louis nods, sharply, and folds a glittering smile her way.

“What did you  _ do, _ Niall?” Lou says, disbelieving. 

Louis coughs discreetly, backing into Harry’s arms. Lou turns, eyes falling on him. 

“You did this?” She looks almost transformed with righteous hairdresser rage, and Louis blinks back at her, heavy-lidded and insolent. “Well,” Louis says, slowly, “Harry ordered the bleach, we both mixed it in, and I put the bottles back, so I’d say it was a joint effort.”

“Ha,” Harry mutters into his ear. “I  _ told you _ I wasn’t the one who mixed it.”

“I said we  _ both _ mixed it, idiot.” Louis hisses back.

Harry chokes on a laugh. On the floor, Niall is scrambling to his feet, eyes narrowed and accusing. “YOU DID THIS.”

“I thought that was… established?” Louis says blankly, and maybe he’s been a bit too blithe about things, because Niall’s coming for him, screaming in rage.

“Oh,  _ shit _ .” Louis laughs, and, hand gripping Harry’s stupidly muscular forearm, he runs.

They manage to hide for a half hour, Harry claiming knowledge of all the bungalow’s secret spots, until Niall spots them tucked in the shower. They’re a breath away from each other, and Louis keeps getting distracted by the shine of Harry’s mouth, caught in the unique alchemy of breath, shared. He’s hovering, brink-unsteady, just  _ centimeters _ away from Harry’s mouth, silvery-pools of thought growing still and silent when it comes to this, this science of passion. Do away with numbers, with equations and precise measurements, throw your instruments headlong into the fire and run in after them!

“Found you!” Niall shouts, door slamming open, and they fall away from each other in gradual, mincing, movements, Louis slowly moving so Harry’s in the line of fire.

(The following battle, consisting only of PAM cooking spray and Bisquick powdered-mix, is one for the ages. He’s fairly certain Liam video-tapes it.)

They end up having to dye Niall’s entire head. The bleach hit him in uneven patches earlier, and Lou bleaches it all, until his hair- wheaty and stiff with bleach - is so reminiscent of 2010 that Louis collapses on the floor, weak with laughter.

It’s a good day.

  
  
  
  


“Should we maybe like, practice? Work on the new album?” Liam says the next day, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Shut up, Liam.” Louis orders, fiddling with an egg. He’s trying to learn how to separate the whites from the yolk, because apparently that’s the first great skill of a pastry chef, which he is determined to become. The Great British Baking Show puts dangerous ideas in one’s mind.

The egg slips from his fingers and breaks open on the kitchen tile. The shards of splintered shell sink slowly in a morass of fulvous yolk and muddled translucency.

“Fuck.” 

Liam leans back, catches a glimpse of the mess on the floor, cracks up, and turns away. Louis takes everything forgiving he ever said about Liam’s tea-making skills and Jesus hair  _ back _ ; he deserves to die.

There’s a Sriracha bottle in the cabinet, and after Louis cleans up the egg, he sneaks a large squeeze into the half-drunken cup of tea on the countertop. 

(Later, Harry drinks it and drops the cup of tea in horrified shock. Louis can’t stop laughing enough to apologise.)

The following Monday, they’ve a livestream FaceTime scheduled between all four of them. 

Louis wakes up cold, bare morning light splintering through the blinds and his body twisted in the thin sheets. Harry’s sprawled out on the floor next to him, he realises with a start, half-naked and covered with a quilt. 

“Every straight girl in Britain wants to be me right now.” Louis says out loud, and then covers a snicker as Harry starts to wake up, bleary and sleep-eyed, fingers starfishing out on the rough carpet. 

“That’s the spirit, baby.” Harry says, voice rough with the cask of night-time dreamlessness. Louis makes a face. Harry’s eyes are a pale green in the morning, spare and elegant, the color of nephrite jade.

“You are  _ not _ coming up here.”

Harry widens his eyes, batting them. “You’re playing dirty.” Louis complains, turning and burying his face in the pillow. He’s very aware that this exposes his lower back and the curve of his arse in briefs. He’s also very aware of Harry’s eyes on him, goosebumps flushing in raised blooms where his eyes stray. Fuck, he’s  _ hopeless _ , no one even remotely affects him the way Harry does. 

“Please, Lou?”

Louis closes his eyes. If Harry climbs into his bed right now, he can’t be held responsible for what he does. However, he is cold. Harry, for all his faults, has always run warm. The math, when put so simply, seems easy.

“Fine.”

Harry lets out a victorious mumble and scrambles up the side of the bed, navigating their combined limbs easily. He moves Louis’ limbs- that’s always gotten to him, too, how even at 16 Harry’d been so comfortable around his body, hands on skin like he owned it - and when he’s ceased movement, they’re curled up together, chest-to-chest, Louis’ face in the curve of Harry’s neck, feet tangled together. This is- not okay.

“I hate you.” Louis mumbles, because this fact must be known. Harry laughs- hardly anything, just a succinct sort of rumble - and Louis wants to cry, because this isn’t fair at  _ all _ .

They get up eventually, Louis forcing Harry to princess-carry him to breakfast. It’s all disgustingly domestic, and Louis vehemently ignores Liam’s knowing, smug, bastard face.

“Can’t wait for the livestream.” Niall says at one point, inhaling a hash-brown (Louis suspects Niall’s subscribed them to a breakfast delivery service), and Louis goes rigid, because  _ fuck _ , the livestream. 

It’s a bit of a mad scramble from there, because they all realise at once that, given that no one’s supposed to know they’re currently in the same house, there’s a limited variety of places they can do the livestream from. 

Niall cordons off an empty bedroom, shoving a cabinet up to barricade the door. Liam goes out to the porch. Louis nabs what he considers prime real estate- the entire backyard, bosky with woodruff and purslane. And Harry- well. Louis doesn’t realise what Harry’s done until it’s too late.

Niall and Liam start off the livestream,  [ because the fans are used to it ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9gDwUvNRgE) . They volley off of each other for a few minutes, all “Hey, mate, long time no see” and “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Niall asks after Maya’s wellbeing; Liam compliments Niall’s new hair, which the fans are in a fucking tizzy over. 

At the 2 minute mark, Louis joins the FaceTime. He’s in a yellow sweater and joggers, sleepy scruff and eyelashes and cheekbones. “Alright, lads.” He yawns, leaning absently on a birch tree. The grass is slightly damp beneath him, dew-furred grass and smeared soil. He should’ve brought a picnic blanket. 

“Nialler, Liam.” Louis smiles in greeting, eyes falling shut briefly. He’s still sleepy. “Nialler,” Louis laughs, shit-eating grin unfurling. “May I say, ‘oever was behind t’whole ‘air decision is a goddamn genius? I’ve never seen you look so good.”

“Thanks,  _ mate _ .” Niall grits out, blue eyes narrowed,and Louis snickers into his hand. “Is ‘arold planning to join, d’you know?” He questions.

“Should be, should be.” Niall tells him. They’re both fighting grins; whoever decided to let them guide the livestream by themselves should be fired, honestly. 

“Ah, tha’s alrigh’, ‘e’s a busy man, isn’t ‘e?” Louis yawns again, accent twisting the words. He waves an absent hand. “Plenty o’ black-and-white pictures to take, juice cleanses to go on, brunches… let’s not forget them  _ Friends _ marathons. Honestly, ‘s a miracle he’s able to get out of the house with the amount of shit he has to do.”

There’s a brief connecting sound, an automated  _ beep _ , and then Louis sees Harry’s stupid handsome face bloom on the screen, curving eyebrows and wide cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, the recalcitrant curve of his mouth and the dimples, Christ. 

He can’t quite figure out where Harry is in the house. It looks quite familiar, white walls and shifting light scattered by pale blinds, but Louis doesn’t even care because,  _ because _ he’s wearing-  _ Jesus Christ _ , he’s wearing what essentially qualifies as  _ lingerie _ ,  [ an expensive looking cream-colored camisole and tap-short combo ](https://www.forever21.com/us/2000414768083.html?gclsrc=aw.ds&%243p=a_google_adwords&%24always_deeplink=false&lpurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.forever21.com%2Fus%2F2000414768083.html%3Fgclsrc%3Daw.ds%26&~ad_set_id=110143059781&~campaign_id=11647983085&~channel=u&~keyword=&~placement=&%24fallback_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.forever21.com%2Fus%2F2000414768083.html%3Fgclsrc%3Daw.ds%26&~campaign=&gclid=CjwKCAiAuoqABhAsEiwAdSkVVLvpg3QsgEJSnpmQCyDkb8vCO3vQsDUQwt1vLQgqDf_xk2z9thm5bxoCK3IQAvD_BwE&gclid=CjwKCAiAuoqABhAsEiwAdSkVVLvpg3QsgEJSnpmQCyDkb8vCO3vQsDUQwt1vLQgqDf_xk2z9thm5bxoCK3IQAvD_BwE&_branch_match_id=879126907915382446&utm_source=u) , scalloped and edged with satiny rose-colored ribbons. Louis wants to die. He- genuinely, he must have done something awful in a past life because he’s on a  _ public  _ livestream with more than 300K fans watching avidly and counting and Harry’s basically in lingerie and he remembers how this used to end, with him tackling Harry to the counter and taking him apart with his teeth. It’s a Pavlovian sort of reaction, he thinks, and he needs to control his facial muscles because he’s fairly certain he looks like a dying fish. Tattoos, skin, lace.  _ Fuck. _

Absently, he realises that Harry’s in  _ his _ bedroom. He can see the green Adidas hoodie slung in the corner, the sheets wadded familiarly and the suitcase knocked against the wall, rumpled joggers and jeans and hoodies spilling out of it. The fans will go absolutely mad, and ordinarily he would be angry but he can’t quite- concentrate, exactly, eyes straying across the way the thin, ballerina-pink ribbons fit against the broad peaks of Harry’s shoulders, the deep V of the camisole cutting across the panes of his chest, skimming a nipple and exposing the black swallows. He really, really, really, wants to suck Harry’s cock. Not that this is a revelatory concept; he wants to suck Harry’s cock pretty much 24/7, but right now he can’t really think of anything else. 

Goddammit, Harry’s  _ winning _ at this- this wicked game, their playfight at temptation, flirting and toeing the line, testing each other’s limits. His limits have been tested. This is the most unjust thing Louis has ever been subject to. He’s going to give Harry the cold shoulder for a  _ week _ after this livestream is over.

“Alright, Tommo?” Liam says, laughing. Oh, he’s in for it, too.

“Hmm.” Louis says, faintly.  _ I want to forsake the world of living.  _ “I’m- fine.”

“Are you?” Niall says under his breath, Liam snorting in agreement, and okay, all of his band-mates can get fucked.

“What was that, Niall?” Louis says, smiling through gritted teeth. Niall snickers. “Nothing, mate.” 

“Wouldn’t it be sad and terrible if you woke up with your lovely, freshly-bleached hair dyed hot pink?” Louis says brightly. If he just- avoids looking at Harry, he’ll be fine.

“I dunno,” Harry says, voice low and enticing, “I think Niall could pull it off.”

“Ta, mate.” Niall cackles. Louis genuinely wants to- to fucking - to  _ bury _ their  _ bodies _ in the  _ woods _ . He’s going to-

“Although to be fair, pink hair is sort of universally attractive,” Harry continues. Louis can tell from the cadence of his voice that he’s making this shit up as he goes, all rambling pauses and dimples. “You could pull it off too, Lou.”

“Thanks, love.” Louis says, because he can be utterly fucking casual. The odds are against him, he’ll admit, but he’s always performed best under pressure. “Maybe we should all dye our hair pink, as a band.” He adds, batting his eyelashes at Harry’s stupidly symmetrical face.

“Nah, Liam couldn’t handle it.” Niall contributes, faux-thoughtful brows and cornflower eyes. Louis rolls his eyes. “Wasn’t talking about  _ Payno _ , ‘is main hair contribution is the Jesus lookalike potential, alright.”

“Are you telling me that Hazza’s hair- the  _ famous _ Harry Styles hair - isn’t contributing?” Niall gasps. Louis tilts his head to the side, absently swiping his tongue over his bottom lip.

“Nah, mate, ‘is hairline’s a bit weird, innit?”

There’s a pause, and then Harry starts with: “I swear to  _ God _ , Lou, if you keep talking about my fucking  _ hairline _ , I’ll-”

“Wear more lace?” Liam mumbles under his breath, and Niall cackles, and for fuck’s sake, this is  _ public _ . On the other hand, Harry’s hairline is a tried-and-true. “Look, mate, it’s not my fault that your hairline’s all… weird.”

“My hairline is literally fine. You’ve  _ seen _ my hairline.”

“I’ve seen your hairline, yeah, but I dunno if I’d describe it as ‘fine’.”

They riff off each other for a few more minutes, and then Niall and Liam take over, answering fan questions. A majority of the fans are sending blue and green hearts, and they ignore it. Several are along the lines of IF LARRY IS REAL TOUCH YOUR NOSE and suddenly, his nose is itching. Deliberately, he places his hands under his arse to avoid temptation.

The majority of fans are also sending ecstatic questions about a potential reunion, and those are the ones they deliberately avoid. A livestream is really  _ weird _ , Louis thinks, because people are  _ watching _ you, live, and there’s no real  _ direction _ to it like there is in an interview. Too, it astonishes him that people would  _ want _ to watch this- just watch four mates “catch up”. It seems unspeakably boring to watch, really. Although he supposes he would watch Harry for the outfit alone. 

“Louis? You’ve been rather quiet?” Niall prompts, and Louis startles. “Sorry, what?”

“Which of our solo music did you like best?” Liam prompts, snickering, and Louis tilts his head to the side. 

“I can’t compare them, can I? They’re all quite different. Harry’s music is sort of rock-inspired flower-child, Liam’s is more R&B and electronica-ish, Niall’s is country-ish pop… Can’t say I like one more than the other.”

“That’s fair,” Niall interjects. “While we’re on the subject, I liked that song about shagging a fish you did, H.”

Louis collapses in laughter, the camera no doubt going wonky. “Me too, H, big love to your fish-fucking song.”

Harry makes several inarticulate noises of frustration. “That song was not about  _ fucking _ a  _ fish _ .”

“Mate, I hate to break it to you, but the music video-” Louis interjects, and Harry makes a horrified noise. “I definitely thought you were into fish for a while there,” Niall says helpfully. 

“It was a  _ friendship _ .” Harry whimpers, and Liam starts laughing, muttering “Never been the best at convincing people of that, ‘ave you?”

“You’re telling me you had that gorgeous, lovely, fish,” Louis says, doing his best imitation of Howard Stern, “And you never once thought about a little- uh, a little hanky-panky? A little romp in the sheets? Or the waves, I s’pose.”

Harry laughs. “Nice one, Lou, but no.”

“That’s a damned shame.” Louis shakes his head, faux-regretful. He continues on with his Howard Stern impression. “Now, Harry, we’ve a little game- we’ve collected a platter of sushi for you, and you just tell us which one you’d like to date-”

“Don’t be an idiot, Lou, that’s  _ not the move _ .” Niall mimics, and they both collapse into laughter. Harry starts pouting. They banter for a few more minutes, and soon they’re talking normally and it’s regular, just like any of their conversations- except he has to  _ watch _ himself, stop calling Harry “Hazza” because people are  _ watching _ . It’s an eerie kind of reversal, because among his boys he’s always been safe and now, he’s not.

“Why the  _ fuck _ would you do it in  _ my _ bed?” Louis hisses to Harry later, much later, when they’ve all congratulated themselves and celebrated and whatnot. This conversation is, ironically, held in Louis’ bed, Harry tucked close to him and smoothing a big hand down Louis’ back.

Harry’s silent for some time, and he’s about to repeat the question when Harry speaks. “I like being in your bed.”

And that’s. And that’s. Louis can’t respond to that. He- his brain goes fuzzy at the edges when he tries to think about it, perception expanding blurrily. 

Instead, he tucks himself tighter against Harry’s side and falls asleep.

_ Larrystylinsonfan1: _

_ THIS IS INSANE WE GOT SO MUCH LARRY CONTENT. _

_ So for those who don’t know (aka those who’ve been living under a rock), Harry, Niall, Louis, and Liam just did a livestream FT with all of them! And the amount of larry content jfc ahhh. There’s a lot but imma attempt to do a masterpost. Links to GIF-sets. _

_ This _ _ moment here. Louis joins the FT (and he looks so prettyyyyy and sleeeppyy he’s my favorite human alive) and after greeting them his first question is whether “Harold” was planning to join. “Bitter feud” yeah right lol. Anyway, he teases Harry’s hipster-ness and immediately, Hazza joins  _ :)

_ x _ \-  _ watch that. Just. OMG. so Hazza’s in lingerie- a cami and short combo and he looks like the prettiest person i’ve ever seen omg - and Louis goes literally silent. Like. his eyes. He looks like he wants to eat harry alive, omg. antis i DARE you. _

_Here_ - _captain niall and liam start teasing louis about it. “Alright, Tommo?” i literally can’t even they’re so married and all their friends ship it_

_ I don’t even know what this is _ _ but ppl would hate me if i didn’t include it lol….Harry’s like “pink hair’s universally attractive” and then goes “you could pull it off, Lou”. THE PET NAMES. I CAN’T. _

_ The hairline thing _ _ exists…. Louis starts teasing H about his hairline and his response is “I swear to God, Lou, if you keep talking about my fucking hairline” that literally means they’ve been in contact aka they live together and lou teases h about his hairline every day. FIGHT ME. _

_ THIS _ . _ SO HARRY’S LIKE “IF YOU KEEP TALKING ABOUT MY HAIRLINE I’LL-” AND LIAM SAYS UNDER HIS BREATH “WEAR MORE LACE?” i mean the audio’s very indistinct tbh and a lot of antis r saying he was saying something else but like literally WHAT _

_ Here _ _ Louis basically admits he listens to H’s music, describing it as “rock-inspired flower child” with the FONDLINSON eyes omg. Look at H’s  _ _ expression _ _ it’s pure love (the harries that r sending hate to louis for “dissing” their god’s music or whatever can bite my ass he was literally teasing and h loves it *eye roll* get over urselves) _

_ here _ _ louis (and to a lesser extent niall) start teasing h about adore you and the fish (some posts about how the ‘Adore You’ video relates to larry etc _ [ _ here _ ](https://larryobsessed28.tumblr.com/post/627625349250957312/im-happy-about-this-whimsical-friendship) _ and  _ [ _ here _ ](https://cyanheart28.tumblr.com/post/190911462814/i-get-so-lost-inside-your-eyes-would-you-believe) _ and  _ [ _ here _ ](https://landhinlove.tumblr.com/post/611314369456898048/im-sorry-did-harry-just-say-the-fish-is) _ ). On the way louis starts imitating howard stern (post about how much we hate howard stern for that interview  _ [ _ here _ ](https://stonedrry.tumblr.com/post/629466200369430528/not-the-move) _ ) and that means two things 1) he literally WATCHES harry’s interviews *cough* *married* and 2) he’s making fun of howard stern aka DEFENDING HIS HUSBAND. WE STAN. _

_ ALSO HERE _ _ Harry calls his relationship with the totally not-at-all-louis fish “a friendship” and liam goes “Never been the best at convincing people of that, have you” and *coughing fit* WHAT. _

_ In conclusion, Louis A) was very visibly affected by H wearing lace, you know, like FRIENDS are, B) is very familiar with him, they had a noticeable banter and the hairline thing basically proved that they talk enough to have their own inside jokes C) listens to H’s music/watches H’s interviews.  _

_ Harry A) got this fond expression on his face whenever Louis started talking B) looked super smug whenever Louis drifted off staring at him and C) kept calling L PET NAMES. AH.  _

_ And and and and _ _ Harry was completely in louis’ room. THAT IS LOU’S GREEN ADIDAS JACKET. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. Louis is outside of their house somewhere next to a tree and Harry’s in their bedroom and they think they’re fooling ppl but they’re fooling literally no one AH I LOVE THEM. _

_ In conclusion of the conclusion, LARRY STYLINSON ARE MARRIED HUSBANDS AND I REFUSE TO DISPENSE MORE ON THE SUBJECT except who am i kidding i’m totally up for talking more about it. The livestream has rejuvenated my will to live and larry. _

_ 4,972 notes _

**WIRED: One D Reunion On The Horizon? Fans Rejoice As The Four Singers Reunite On FaceTime**

**J-14:** **One D Together Again? Read More…**

 **Teen Vogue:** **OMG! Are One D Reuniting?**

“Been on Tumblr recently?” Zayn says when Louis calls him, and Louis makes an inarticulate noise of frustration. “Shut your stupidly pretty _ face _ , Zayn.”

“Because all of the old shipping blogs are now active and they’re all making masterposts and those are all getting thousands of notes. So. Mainstream media might not have picked up on it but Tumblr users-”

“Tumblr users pick up on everything. Bit like the Mafia. What’s your fucking  _ point _ , Wayne.” Louis hisses, pressing further against the stucco-ed wall. It’s cold outside, night settling crisply among the streets and gnawing at his skin. The boys are inside, Harry cooking fajitas. He hears indistinct laughter, a crash; warm, lively, sounds.

“I seem to remember you saying something along the lines of  _ we’re not together _ .” Zayn says, smug. Louis gapes. “We’re  _ not. _ ”

“Hmm.” Zayn says.

“We’re  _ not fucking _ .”

“ _ Hmmm _ .”

“I swear to Christ-”

“I’m just saying, the way you looked at him wasn’t exactly friend-material, mate.”

Louis rolls his eyes. His fingers itch for a cigarette, but it’s an itch he’s well-used to.

“I’m not denying that I want to suck his cock, I’m denying that we’re  _ together _ .”

There’s a familiar cough behind him, and Louis freezes, horrified. Well.

“Um. Talk to you later, mate.” Louis says quickly, and hangs up. He turns. Harry stands silhouetted by warmth, rimmed with a vivid aureole of heat and food, laughter spilling from behind him. There’s a self-satisfied smile quirking his upper lip, green eyes catlike in the night. Louis feels cold and embarrassed and shivering, like he wants to stay in this sheltering dark for ages and never come out. 

“I don’t suppose we could pretend you didn’t hear that?” Louis says, weakly.

Harry laughs. “No need to be embarrassed, baby. It’s flattering.” And, okay, the sheer  _ arrogance _ . It’s both infuriating and attractive.

Louis stalks forward. “First off, every straight girl in Britain wants to suck your cock. Second of all, stop making that fooking  _ face _ , Jesus.” His fingers find the splay of Harry’s mouth, pushing it down easily. Harry pouts exaggeratedly, eyebrows curving downwards and green eyes going big and baby-like. This is the man Louis finds attractive.

“Who were you talking to, anyway?” Harry asks a moment later, sliding an easy arm around his shoulders and tugging him back to the house. Louis allows it, if only because Harry’s warm and he’s been cold lately.

“Someone.” Louis says, vaguely. Harry smells like- warmth, like heat and cooking and salt.

“Someone,” Harry repeats, amused. “Do I have to guess?”

“My business isn’t automatically your business.” Louis says instead of answering, and Harry’s arm tightens around Louis. “Lou-”

“Shut up.” Louis says, softly. “Just. Shut up.”

“Okay.” Harry says, softly. The door swings open, and together they walk into the warmth.

  
  


“Liam, you’ve been tense lately.” Louis says, frowning slightly. There’s afternoon light pouring through the blinds, late lunch on the table, birds chirping, and Liam’s hiding something. 

“What.” Liam says, weakly. And then, “Um. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Louis eyes him, biting into a strawberry absently. “I don’t believe you.”

“Um, so, I. I might’ve-” Liam starts, then cuts himself off, plunging his fingers into his Jesus hair and face-planting on the table. “Niall, help.”

Niall glances up from his sandwich, swallowing with a gulp. “What’re we talking about?”

“Liam’s done something.” Louis says, picking up a fork and poking Liam’s head with it. 

“Ah.” Niall says. He looks shifty.

“You  _ know _ what he’s done,” Louis realises out loud, plucking another fork and readying for war. Harry, to his side, is watching the interaction with absent-minded curiosity. Louis is counting on him as an ally. “Niall-” He begins, narrowing his eyes, but he’s cut off by the ringing of a doorbell.

Louis whips his head to the door. There’s a brief silence, during which Harry looks more and more curious, Liam looks terrified for his life, and Niall has absolutely no change in expression, and then Liam’s leaping up from the table and scrambling to the door.

Niall reaches over the table, patting Louis’ head. “You might be mad at us for this, mate, but it had to happen sooner or later-”

The door swings open, and Zayn Malik walks in. 

He’s gorgeous as ever in ripped black jeans, a Rolling Stones tee, and a baggy denim jacket. Louis wants to kill him.

“You fucking  _ bastard _ -” Louis begins, abandoning the forks and stalking forward.

“ _ Louis _ -” Liam says in alarm, and he hears Harry standing, the chair screeching back, hears Niall saying something indistinct but he doesn’t even care because  _ Zayn is here. _

“Nice to see you too, Lou.” Zayn smirks, and catches Louis neatly when he leaps into his arms.

Zayn smells like- cinnamon, curry, Gigi Hadid’s perfume, and baby powder. The actuality of him is astonishing- their friendship for years now has consisted mainly of biweekly phone calls. 

“ _ What _ ?” Niall says from behind him.

Louis ignores them, drawing back from Zayn slightly. 

“I was on the phone with you  _ last night _ and you didn’t fucking tell me you were coming, you fuckwit-”

“What the  _ fuck _ .” Harry’s voice comes, and Louis stills, legs tightening momentarily around Zayn’s waist. Slowly, he slides off of Zayn, turning.

“Um,” Louis says, weakly. “Well. Surprise, Zayn and I have been friends for a while now.”

“How long?” Harry demands, eyes glittering with something dark and almost angry, and he has  _ no right _ to be mad. Louis feels the old familiar rage take him in its grip, a glimmering hauberk of lancing claws, frightening in the swiftness of its reaction.

“May 28th, 2015.” Zayn says, dark eyes narrowed at Harry. So  _ that’s _ mutual, then, and Louis edges discreetly out of the way, eyes on Harry. He’s gone pale, fingers gripping each other and white to the bone. Eyes virid and forceful with horror and anger.

“Don’t act like you have any ground to stand on,  _ mate _ .” Harry hisses. “You  _ left _ .”

Zayn laughs, sharp and caustic. “You fucking  _ know _ why I left, you arsehole. Sorry I didn’t let some racist fucks keep messing with my head. And  _ like you cared _ about how Lou felt after I left. Supporting him took a backseat to hanging out with Grimshaw, didn’t it. Hate to break it to you, but you’re a really fucking shitty boyfriend.”

Harry is so angry he looks bloodless. 

“Lads,” Louis says carefully, “Let’s calm down. Zayn ‘ad valid reasons to leave. Harry wasn’t a shitty boyfriend. Okay?” 

And Zayn  _ did _ . They don’t talk about it much, but Zayn’s told Louis about the times he felt like he was drowning, like his race and religion were being wiped away, like was cardboard for their stereotypes. Louis knows he can’t possibly know what it’s like- closeting is a different beast than racial erasure - but he can sympathise. If he hadn’t loved it so much, he might’ve left, too, when it got to be too much.

“Yes, he fucking was,” Zayn grits out, “Don’t try to defend him, Lou, I was  _ there _ . I watched you-” He breaks off, inhaling. 

“He wasn’t a shitty boyfriend for most of our relationship.” Louis amends, watching them both carefully. “And Harry, Zayn’s me best mate-”

Harry whirls, eyes wide. “You- you  _ hated _ him-”

Zayn laughs again, and it sounds like it curdles in his throat. “Sure you’re not talking about yourself, mate?”

“You-”

“ _ Stop it _ .” Louis hisses, stepping in between them. “Stop your fucking pissing contest, Jesus, or if you’re not mature enough, stop using me as a chew toy.”

“Might want to cool it with the dog metaphors.” Niall pipes up behind him, and without looking, Louis reaches back and slaps him.

Zayn fixes him with an incredulous stare. “It’s not a  _ pissing contest _ , fuck’s sake. He  _ hurt _ you, Lou. I’m not going to forget that because you’ve been playing house with him for a few weeks.”

“He hurt me,” Louis repeats, “He hurt  _ me _ . So I decide when to forgive him. And it’s been  _ seven years _ , Z, and you know I-” Louis falters, biting at his lip, because there’s no real right way to finish that sentence. 

“You know how I feel about you two,” Zayn says after a moment, running a hand through his hair. Louis nods, silently.  _ I was there to pick up the pieces, I know how bad it got, and I’m not going to forgive him until he gets down on his knees and proposes.  _ Which, given its inherent impossibility, will be a very, very, long time.

“Besides,” Zayn adds, forcing a smile, “I thought we could work on the song together.”

“We should start working on the new album, shouldn’t we?” Liam points out, voice strained. He’s darting panicked gazes between Harry and Zayn. Slowly, Louis turns.  [ _ Make Me Cry _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXyBcKV0UIo&list=LL4pO65fzW8qFKmyoylS-ang&index=2637) is- it’s really fucking  _ personal _ , is the thing, and he isn’t sure if he wants them to hear it- but then again,  _ Two Of Us _ and  _ Just Hold On  _ were personal, too, and he released them to the entire fucking world.

“Unless you’re too busy having bonding time,” Harry adds, snide. Louis pivots and fixes him with a black glare. Harry’s so rarely petty, is the thing, and it’s disconcerting when he is. 

“Lou?” Zayn prompts, nudging him. Louis shoves his hands in his pockets, shrugs. “Might as well.”

  
  


They pile into the home studio, all five of them, and it’s bristlingly awkward at first, it is. The five of them have so much history. Deadened carpets of leaves after autumn’s blazed and passed. To sit here is to suffocate under the weight of it. 

Intricate conflicts tear their way through the little silences. Each of them have their own individual relationship with Zayn; where before it was an interwoven friendship, strength found against the matted tangle of human connection, now they each have relationships of varying degrees of closeness with him. 

Harry, the nemesis. Liam, the pacifist. Niall, the merry observer. Louis, the catalyst.

The cool weight of his scalp, fierce against the rigid edge of the window. Intimate conversation held amid unabashed, glaring, silence. The way Harry looks when he’s half-furious half-guilty, facial features in permanent, agonizing, flux.

“How’s Gigi?” Louis asks, cheery. Zayn shrugs, a motion both elegant and uncompromising. His eyes flit to Harry, who’s got his head bent, knuckles white around a pencil. “She’s- great, it’s great. How’s Freddie?” (Harry flinches. Louis tries not to react.)

“He’s great,” Louis says, softly. Niall and Liam are conspicuously quiet. Harry’s so still that Louis isn’t sure if he’s  _ breathing _ . “Bri’s- it’s complicated, but he’s great.”

“Briana’s still on about the schedule?” Zayn says, sympathetic. Momentarily, Louis envies him- he and Gigi are raising their daughter  _ together _ , he’s never had to argue just for a few extra minutes with his own child. “She’s- yeah, pretty much. It’s- no, she’s a great mother, but.”

“Have you thought about- legal proceedings, fighting for custody?” Zayn murmurs, and this is normally a conversation that would be held in the sacred echelons of the night, far away from any ears but theirs. Zayn’s been his best mate for years; Niall and Liam are his  _ boys _ and Harry’s- Harry’s  _ his _ , but it’s still odd, to know they’re listening to every word.

“You know I have,” Louis mutters, poking him irritatedly. “But, she’s ‘is mum, isn’t she? And- especially considering the fact that we’ll be going on tour soon - it’s not fair to ‘im. He deserves one full-time parent.”

They’re silent for a minute, and then Zayn laughs. “Is he still obsessed with Marvel superheroes, then?”

Louis smiles. “The other day, ‘e asked me if he could be Wonder Boy. As in, the lad version of Wonder Woman.”

Liam laughs. “Ah, he’s a little lad. D’you know, Bear asked after Freddie the other day?”

Louis cranes his head, eyeing Liam with interest. “Ever wonder if our lads’ll ever fall in love? Could be in-laws, you and me.”

“Oi,” Zayn objects lazily, “And what about my girl? Leaving her out of the romance?”

“Could be because you  _ left  _ One Direction,  _ mate _ .” Harry mutters, and Louis rolls his eyes so hard they ache.

They’re relatively silent after that. Zayn and Louis split off and work on lyrics, Zayn taking over the tech, fingers expertly prodding switches and buttons. “We said a teardrop sound, right? Well, maybe-”

“No, bit more subtle than that.” Louis objects when he hears it. They play with the sound for a while, and he gets absorbed in it. Liam and Harry are off writing in a corner, Niall strumming a guitar and playing riffs to help them along. 

“Shall we try to get a good take, then?” Zayn says, raising his brows, and Louis shakes his head, worrying absently at his thumbnail. “No, we ‘ave to assign lines, still.”

“Thought we would just, I dunno, sing together, like old times?”

Louis shakes his head definitively, leaning back in his chair and tilting his chin. He’s absorbed in this so intently, every fresh movement feels like a revelation. “Nah, I wouldn’t say- some of these lyrics that you've written I could never sing.”

They crouch over a printout of the lyrics, trading them back and forth- “I’d  _ never _ say that,” Zayn argues when Louis tries to assign him an extra lyric, and Louis scoffs “Oh, come off it, like you’d say  _ mind running wild, we touchin’ slow _ in regular conversation” - and finally they settle. 

Zayn runs the backing track. Louis listens, headphones over his ears.

“ _ I never needed you like I do right now _ ,” Louis sings, eyes closed. He feels eyes on him, the brutal weight of perception, but he doesn’t want to meet them. He’s never liked people watching him while he sings, which is fucking brilliant given that he’s a touring singer.

“ _ I never needed you like I do right now _ .” He repeats, playing with the notes slightly.

“ _ I never hated you like I do right now _ ,” Zayn sings, voice effortlessly high, and they duet the lyric: “ _ Cause all you ever do is make me- _ ” A teardrop sound instead of the word “cry”.

He feels the familiar blood, rushing deeply under his skin, anticipation building.

“ _ Gave you up about twenty-one times _ .” Louis sings, “ _ Felt those lips tell me twenty-one lies _ .” Zayn sings.The beat is minimal, backing smooth and not over-produced. It’s fresh and utterly different from anything they’ve done before.

“ _ You’ll be the death of me _ ,” Louis sings, whipping the words out hard and strong, emphasising  _ death _ . Harry’s eyes, glittering and green and tilted towards him,  _ I like being in your bed _ and lace over tanned skin. “ _ Sage advice _ .” Zayn adds, and together they sing:“ _ Lo-loving you could make Jesus cry _ .” 

“ _ When I hear you saying darling _ .” Louis sings, one-two-three beat, “ _ Your kiss is like an antidote. _ ” When I hear you call me baby, he adds silently, when you look at me like you do, like I could have you if I wanted. I can’t have you, and I’m sick of it.

“ _ I’m fighting like I’m Ali _ ,” Zayn sings, curving his body around the mic, “ _ But you got me on the ropes _ .”

Duet: “ _ I never needed you like I do right now _ .  _ I never needed you like I do right now _ .” He flashes back to after- after Mum passed, the way Harry held him. Vicious, terrible, love in the pass of his hand over Louis’ vertebrae, in the shrug of his muscles as he scooped Louis up. 

“ _ I never hated you like I do right now, _ ” They sing, Louis spitting out  _ hate _ like it’s a curse, forceful and insistent. Across the glass, Harry’s eyes burn into him, a lance of horrifying knowing, viridescent eyes and something canny behind the panes of glass.

“ _ Cause all you ever do is make me _ -”  _ Plink _ , the sound of a tear splashing.

“ _ Couldn’t hear the thunder _ ,” Louis sings, finally opening his eyes. They flutter slightly in the sudden outpouring of light, flitting downwards as he adjusts. “ _ But I heard your heart race _ ,” Zayn finishes, hips shimmying and hands smoothing down his sides. Louis smiles, a half-thing of habit. 

“ _ Couldn’t see the rain _ ,” Louis tells Harry, “ _ We’re too busy making hurricanes _ .” Zayn finishes, head nodding. The minimal backing track splinters for a second,  _ ye-ah _ reverberating in a swell of shattering sound, then resuming its plodding, careful, beat.

“ _ Love ain’t easy when it ain’t my way _ ,” Louis sings, swaying slightly, loving the way the words fit into his mouth. “ _ But it gets hard _ ,” They sing together, “ _ When you ain’t here making me crazy. _ ”

“ _ Baby say the word darling _ ,” Zayn sings, “ _ You know just how to hold the sucker down. _ ”

“ _ So I’ll see you in the morning _ ,” Louis sings sharply, eyes finding Harry’s suddenly, one-two-three beat, “ _ I can’t watch you walk out. _ ”

“ _ I never needed you like I do right now _ .  _ I never needed you like I do right now _ ,” They harmonize, Louis fixing his eyes on Harry because he needs, suddenly and desperately, for Harry to above all  _ understand _ , “ _ I never hated you like I do right now _ ,” Notes soaring, heart afire, “ _ Cause all you ever do is make me- _ ”  _ Plink _ , a tear splashing, and then, shooting Zayn a quick grin, Louis steals his line: “ _ Cry _ .” Zayn’s smiling, the beat strikes downward sharply, one-two-three, “ _ Cry _ ,” Zayn sings this time, and then, “ _ Cry _ .” Louis finishes.

“ _ Hear the thunder, see the rain _ .” Louis sings, and then the backing track layers with high and lovely descants, Zayn’s  _ oo-oohs _ swiping up and down the sound like swoops of curling color, “ _ Keep on making me cry _ ,” Zayn sings, voice soaring unbelievably high, and Louis fist-pumps, practically vibrating with how excited he is.

“ _ Keep on making me scream and holler _ ,” Louis sings, grimacing because Zayn wrote that line and really, he should be the one singing it. “ _ Keep on making me cry _ ,” Zayn sings again, voice in the upper echelons of an insanely high falsetto. “ _ You know what you do to me. _ ”

“ _ I’ve never needed you like I do right now. I never needed you like I do right now. _ ” They duet a final time, sharing grins, “ _ I never hated you like I do right now _ .”

“ _ Cause all you ever do is make me _ -” A final piano note in place of a teardrop, final and composed.

When they exit the studio room, it’s about 6 p.m. Harry, Niall and Liam, have the bare bones of a song done and Zayn and Louis have  _ Make Me (Cry) _ polished and completed. They migrate to the living room, sprawling bonelessly across the green corduroy couch, ostensibly watching the shit telly playing.

“So,” Niall says to Zayn, tentatively, “You and Lou’ve been friends since… 2015?”

“Since 2010, actually.” Louis yawns, and Niall smacks him in the arm. 

“Yep.” Zayn says peaceably, closing his eyes. “We helped each other get through 2015.” Zayn adds, nudging Louis gently. 

“ _ Christ _ ,” Louis exhales, remembering. “2015, what an absolute shithole of a year.”

Niall bites his lip, looking slightly confused. “I- I didn’t think 2015 was that bad, to be honest.”

Slowly, Louis breathes. For the first time in ages, he lets it flood him, the memory of it all. The way he retreated dimly to the edges of consciousness- anything to get him to that state, that half-blurred fugue of not-knowing, not-thinking, not-feeling: drugs, alcohol, sex - gathering a string of flings like flowers, to be plucked and discarded. The way he’d known, implicitly, that it was bad for him, so _ bad _ for him, and he’d continued, forcing down drinks he could no longer taste because goddammit, he  _ wanted _ it to hurt. The feel of a needle sinking into his skin, the night going vast and splendidly psychedelic.

(Worse or perhaps better: the mornings, waking up nestled in the grooves of unfamiliar ribs, everything aching and stale, colors retreating back to their placid, plodding, selves and feeling  _ too much _ .)

“It was,” Louis says, softly, reaching across Niall to grip Zayn’s hand briefly. Zayn’s wedding ring digs into his palm, a reminder: Zayn is happy now; out of the two of them, he found The One and stayed with them. Louis can’t say the same.

He blinks, the colors shivering in front of him. “It was- It was one of the worst years of my life.”

Slowly, soothingly, Zayn squeezes his hand. Niall bites his lip, glancing from the two of them to Harry, who’s got his eyes trained forward.

“Are you two…” Niall trails off, eyeing them both, brow furrowed. “Like, are you two…”

They stare at him blankly. Niall’s gaze darts to their joined hands, and Louis starts laughing. “Are we- d’you mean to ask us if we’re  _ together _ ?” Louis chokes out, leaning his head against the cushion and laughing unabashedly. Zayn’s laughing too.

“Zayn is married to  _ Gigi Hadid _ , Jaysus,” Louis says, still shaking with laughter. “And you thought-” He breaks off to howl, laughter tearing through him.

“Well, I haven’t talked to Z in ages, for all I know Gigi could be like El,” Niall says defensively, and Louis raises his brows. “They have a  _ daughter _ together.”

“You have a son.” Niall points out, and Louis blinks. “Not one with Eleanor, thank fucking Christ.”

Harry coughs, loud and obvious.

“Lads,” Niall marvels, switching topics with ease, “I can’t believe it. All five of us together again, who would’ve thought?”

“Could almost be 2010.” Louis says dryly, stretching. Niall flicks him. “Oi, none of that, sassy.”

Louis smiles despite himself, eyes lingering on Harry. “Nah, mate, I know what you mean.”

“Gonna be awesome.” Niall sighs, blissful.

  
  


A few minutes to 7, Harry stands up, rushing out of the room. Louis narrows a gaze at him, and follows.

“Louis,” Harry sighs, exasperated, when Louis corners him in his bedroom. Louis glares.

“Harry.” He returns, enunciating.

Harry watches him, eyes at once placid and provoking. There’s something so peculiar about his eyes, the gemmed color of them.

“What the  _ fuck _ is your problem, H?” Louis says after a moment, leaning absently against the door. The knob digs into his back, but he doesn’t want to move.

Harry’s eyes are wide and silent.

“Like, seriously, what’s the problem?” Louis continues, hand drumming a restless beat on the doorframe. “Zayn’s here. You’re mad at Zayn for leaving, he’s mad at you for leaving me,  _ whatever. Talk  _ to me. Don’t fucking treat us like shit.”

There’s a pause, and then Harry’s face twists slightly. He glances at the floor, a hand covering his mouth. There’s an aborted noise, a swift inhale. Louis watches.

“I’m sorry.” Harry says at last, shrinking. “I’m- I. You’re right, it’s not fair of me to- to take it out on you.”

Louis rolls his eyes; Harry’s not focusing on what he’s trying to say. He walks closer, feet finding their way to Harry’s space naturally. “H,” He sighs, “That’s- I don’t - I need you to talk to me about what’s wrong.”

Harry glances up, and his eyes are abruptly bright, fierce and solitary and cornered. “What’s  _ wrong _ ? Fuck, Lou.” He laughs, jagged, backing away and pacing. 

“You’re- Shit. I’m acting like an arse and you’re  _ still _ here, asking me what’s wrong. I don’t deserve you, you know that?” Harry inhales shakily, arms sliding around himself, and Louis wants to touch him. He doesn’t move.

“You’ve forgiven me for- for breaking your heart and being a complete and total twat in 2015.” Harry continues, feet wearing the floorboards down, “And I- I got that, and I hated myself for it but  _ fuck _ , Lou, I didn’t realise- you told me, back in 2017, you told me and I felt horrible, but I still didn’t realise. I didn’t think. And to think that I was  _ such _ a shit boyfriend- such a shit person, really - that I didn’t support you when Zayn left, so much that  _ Zayn _ had to, so much that you felt like you had to hide your friendship from  _ me _ \- I hate that.” Harry sinks onto the bed, shaking. His eyes find Louis.

“And I’m  _ jealous _ of him, and I have absolutely no right and I  _ hate _ that, too. I’m sorry. You know that. I’m so, so sorry, but sometimes I feel like it’ll never be enough.”

Louis stares in silence. The night colors the room dimly, he can see the barest skimming outlines of Harry’s figure and the shine of his eyes, his curls. The moon outside is a creamy suggestion, veiled and dreamy and halved. 

“You hurt me a lot.” Louis says, baldly, cataloguing Harry’s flinch. “And I know that you- you did it for different reasons than I thought you did, but you still hurt me. Zayn helped me through that.”

Harry nods silently, arms tightening around himself.

He stalks forward, until he’s a fingertip’s distance away from Harry. “But that was  _ seven years ago _ , Harry.” Louis exhales, stroking a palm over Harry’s hair, fingers plunging into his curls. “And I still get mad over it sometimes, I’m not going to lie. There are still days I get so fucking angry at you, because I wanted forever with you and you ruined that. But,”

He pauses, watching Harry softly, with an ornithologist's eye- delicate, afraid to provoke flight. He’s so, so pretty. Distinct features, the faint impression of facial hair, wide eyes. A man, after all this long.

“ _ But _ ,” Louis repeats, “I love you. I love you, I’ve never not loved you, and that’s- I’ve lost enough people I love. I’m not going to lose you, ever. So, like, sort your fucking shit out.”

Harry’s silent for a few seconds, and then he’s burying his head in his hands and laughing or crying, Louis can’t tell. His shoulders shake, shoulder blades knifing at the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“I really love you.” Harry says after he’s calmed down, pressing his face into Louis’ belly. Louis allows it, still stroking Harry’s curls gently. “I, like. We say it a lot, but I, you know. Really, really, love you.”

“Thanks, love.”

“ _ Fanks _ .” Harry mocks, poking at Louis’ belly with an absurdly gentle finger, and Louis bats him away, nose wrinkling. They’re going to be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to be one chapter but ao3 interceded and now it's two. sorry! hope you enjoy, happy chinese new year and valentine's day!

They’re clingy for the rest of the night, constantly touching each other all throughout dinner. Harry pulls Louis’ chair closer in a strange parallel of  [ the Paris interview ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4GBmCGN4Gew) . Louis pauses, sets down his fork, and climbs into Harry’s lap, stealing his potatoes. Harry doesn’t even deign to look miffed about it, sliding an arm around his waist and smiling. The rest of the boys try not to stare, but Louis catches several eyebrows raised, chiefly from  _ Liam _ and  _ Zayn _ , the smug fuckers.

_ We’re not together, we’re just clingy right now _ he tries to communicate telepathically. Zayn coughs loudly, leaning back in his chair and arching his left brow. Louis glares.

“So,” Louis says loudly, interrupting several conversations, “How long are you staying for, Z?”

Zayn shrugs fluidly, spearing a roasted brussel sprout - “These are excellent, by the way” - and dashing it in sauce. “Dunno. I’ve agreed to collab with you guys for a song, haven’t I? The song we worked on is a duet, we have to edit it to fit a five-piece still.”

“You’ve agreed to a collab?” Louis repeats, shooting out of Harry’s lap and leaning dangerously close to the food to give Zayn an aggressively affectionate shoulder squeeze. Harry makes a discontent sound, pressing his face against Louis’ sacrum.

Zayn smiles, nodding. “It’s gonna be  _ sick _ , Lou.”

“ _ Fuck _ yeah.” Louis says, with feeling, and sinks back down into Harry’s lap, patting his head absently. He gets lost in Harry’s curls for a while- he remembers refusing to talk to Harry for a month when he’d cut it again, but it’s gotten longer. It’s about 2011 length now, albeit more styled, and he can knit his fingers through it easily, relishing in the springy feel.

“I see what you mean,” Zayn says in an undertone to Niall, who beams and yells  _ TRICHOPHILIA _ loud enough that Louis resurfaces, blinking drowsily at them.

“I do  _ not _ have a hair  _ fetish _ .” Louis reiterates, leaning against Harry’s chest. “I have a fondness for Harry’s curls, yes, but that is because his curls remind me of better and more innocent days.”

“2011 wasn’t that innocent, mate.” Zayn mutters, slouching low in his seat, and Niall cackles. Liam makes a horrified face, muttering about “the hotel room walls, Jesus”.

Louis eyes them all indignantly. “Excuse  _ you _ , thousands- millions, I’d say - of fans across the world have written  _ fan flicks _ about me and Hazza going a’ it, you are  _ privileged _ to be one of the honored few-”

“Fan  _ fics _ , Lou.” Harry sighs, laughing against his neck, and Louis makes a face, elbowing him. “Shut it, Haz, I’m defending us.”

“My knight-in-shining-armor.” Harry mocks gently, and Louis elbows him harder. 

“Harry did wear tha’ ball gown, he’d be a pretty good damsel in distress, wouldn’t you say?” Liam teases, and Louis goes loose thinking about it. Harry, skin, lace, tulle. God.

“I  _ would _ , thank you.” Harry says dreamily, and Louis has to turn around and press a fleeting kiss on his curls, because Harry can be so fucking adorable sometimes, honestly.

Zayn coughs, blatant and smug, and Louis whips around, hissing “shut  _ up _ , Ringo” at him.

“Ringo,” Harry repeats, coughing to hold back laughter, “Ringo, like- like  [ the SNL monologue  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=es7jXKXzW-Q&t=223s) I did?”

“ _ I’m just so grateful Simon Cowell grew us in those test tubes _ .” Louis quotes, giggling.

“ _ I’m not in a boy-band any more… I’m in a man band _ .” Niall mocks.

“ _ Especially songs performed in English, because that’s the only language I understand _ .” Liam quotes after they nudge him, grinning.

They all turn expectantly to Zayn, who stares at them unflinchingly before breaking, laughing, “ _ Did you know they put makeup on the boys, too _ ?”

“Oh my God,” Louis gasps out, “Jesus Christ, fuck,  [ the Sara Lee skit ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeoxg8hx-lc) . Fuckin’ hell.”

“ _ And that’s a reference to... ? _ ” Niall draws it out, winking.

“ _ Getting railed to death, yes _ .” Liam finishes, collapsing in laughter.

“ _ People love bread content _ .” Louis trades, winking, and Niall returns with “ _ Why no response? _ ”

“ _ Wreck me, daddy _ .” Zayn says, posh.

“ _ Destroy me king _ .” Louis jibes, and Harry starts shaking with laughter behind him, squeezing him tighter.

They talk at the table, trading stories and inside jokes that only them five understand, for hours, until the food’s grown cold.

  
  


He and Harry curl up on a couch with a blanket, whispering to each other. Later, he won’t remember what, exactly, they’re saying.  _ I thought that was _ \-  _ No, I wouldn’t - Are you forgetting 2013, then?  _ Something about stars.

The couch is vast and comfortable, Louis curling in the shelter of Harry’s arms. It’s stupid, and cliche, to think  _ home _ when he thinks of Harry, because he truly hadn’t seen Harry in person for years, but. 

Oh, well, Louis thinks, because it could be worse, being not-together with the man wrapped around him. His heart’s been hovering on a tightwire for years now, and he has to remind himself why he and Harry  _ can’t _ . 

One Direction is getting back together, and fuck, 2014 almost broke them; 2015 succeeded. If he was going to get back together with Harry at  _ any _ point, it wouldn’t be fucking  _ now _ . 

He feels a pang of anger, loathing at himself for not taking advantage of the last five years. He lets it pass through him, the hurt of lost potential, lets it fade. It isn’t, after all, like the years were so viable. 2018 and 2019 were crazy for Harry, his fame amplifying to a concentrated spotlight; they couldn’t have possibly made it work. 2020 and 2021 were spent in the pandemic. 2022; the band is getting back together, it’ll be even worse. This is fine. 

“Harry,” He thinks he whispers as he’s drifting off. He’s got the fabric of Harry’s shirt twisted in his clutch. Everything’s gone crepuscular and blurry, tide-like and lunar. Things pass and fall away. 

“What is it, baby?” Harry yawns, brushing a lazy hand down Louis’ side. “Nothing.” Louis says back;  _ nothing, I just wanted to say your name, I just wanted you to feel you respond to me. _

He wakes up abruptly. Someone’s calling his name, and he sits up, feeling cold. Harry’s arms tighten around him. Zayn is standing in front of him, looking crisp and stupid-perfect. His mind hovers, dreamy with sleep, and in the murky fugue Zayn looks like an angel.

“Hmm?” Louis mumbles, stretching out. “Time’s it?”

“It’s 4 in the morning.” Zayn says, biting his lip, and Louis glares, whispering “you motherfucker, why’d you wake me up?”

“I was going to the bathroom and I saw-” Zayn cuts himself off, gesturing vaguely at their tangled forms. “ _ This _ .”

Louis glances down at Harry. Harry’s got his arms curled around Louis, his back pressed to the couch and legs slipped between Louis’ thighs. His face is lax with sleep, his lashes thick and short.

“Whatever you want to fucking say,” Louis whispers, wrinkling his nose, “Just say it.”

Zayn throws his hands up, backlit by the moon. “This isn’t healthy, Lou.” Zayn sighs, shaking his head. “You literally act like you’re married, d’you realise that? Which is- great, I want you to be happy, but then you say shit like ‘ _ we’re not together _ ’ and then sit on his  _ lap _ during dinner. It’s not fair to either of you.”

“It’s also none of your  _ fookin’ _ business.” Louis hisses, mindful of volume, because Harry can’t hear this.

“I know it’s not,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes, “But you insisted on subjecting me to five years of hearing your sex sounds, I think I’m entitled to give you five minutes of concerned advice.”

Harry’s eyelids flutter.

“Be quieter,” Louis hisses. “You’re going to wake him.”

Zayn sighs, running a hand through his hair, “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Louis whispers peevishly, and then “Look, Z, you know I’ve- fuck, you know I’ve been in love with ‘im for more than a decade, you know I’ll- he’s the one for me, you know that. I’m not getting over him. Fuck. But the band is getting together. D’you even-  _ One Direction is getting together again _ . When the news breaks, right, it’ll be the biggest thing this year; we’ll be under a fookin’ magnifying glass. You  _ know _ . I  _ can’t _ \- ‘e doesn’t want to come out, because it’s none of people’s business and I- that’s  _ fine _ , but I cannot deal with the amount of media scrutiny we were under, pretend to date El,  _ and _ be together with Harry. I’ve done it before, and it was- you know.”

Zayn sighs again, “Fuck. You haven’t talked to me about what the contract’s like- d’you think there are lawyers-”

“It’s less restrictive,” Louis says, softly. “I’m not legally bound to be as straight as fookin’ possible, but they still control a hell of a lot of my image. And they’re sure as hell going to be using El for years- her contract’s until 2025, d’you know? I can’t completely come out of the closet. There’s a few loopholes- I’m sure if I was papped kissing a man, they’d have a coming-out article and jump on the PR bandwagon or that shit, but. I’m not about to- to fucking come out of the closet with a random lad.” He realises he’s blinking stars out of his eyes, shaking slightly. Thinking about it in the half-awake state he’s in is strange, jarring.

“Shit, Lou.” Zayn sighs, brushing a soft hand on his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m sorry I woke you up at arse-o’clock, babes. Go back to sleep.”

“So, I win, then.” Louis mutters churlishly, curling back into Harry’s warmth. Zayn laughs, rubbing a hand over his eyes and sloping off to bed.

He doesn’t fall asleep for hours.

When he wakes up he’s cold. Harry’s leaning over him, smiling. His eyes are green and the curl of his hair slopes over his nose and Louis immediately decides that today will be spent annoying him as much as possible.

“Go away, I hate you.” Louis yawns, burrowing deeper under the blanket.

Harry pouts. “I made breakfast.” His voice is so deep in the morning, rough and belly-low. Louis inhales, stretching slowly. “What is it?”

“Pancakes and whipped cream.” Harry says, watching him.

“Make me bacon and I’ll consider getting up.” Louis says, muffled.

Harry laughs, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “The bacon’s on the stove already, baby.”

Louis pushes his head into the blankets, groans, and emerges, pushing Harry’s stupid face out of the way. 

This morning’s dimmer than usual, the light filtered and dove-grey. A glance outside confirms his suspicions: it’s raining, the hissing of the bacon on the stove interspersed with the sounds of rain pattering on the roof. Tinny, comforting.

He’s still cold, so he steals the blanket and wraps it around himself, shivering. There are indeed pancakes on the table, and, by some miracle of circumstance, none of the boys are awake yet.

(It sparks a deep, hurting, spark of longing in him: for mornings just like this, Harry’s morning voice and  _ baby _ , bacon and pancakes and blankets, rain on the roof and hot oil sizzling. Everything hurts if you think about it enough.)

“Excellent,” Louis says, forcing all Harry-related thoughts from his mind, “Niall’s not here.”

Harry wanders back to the stove, spatula in hand, to survey the bacon.

“Is sharing with Niall so bad?” He says, amused.

Louis glances at him. “Have you met ‘im? The lad’s a bottomless pit.” He pulls out a chair, absentmindedly yanking the platter of pancakes towards him and stealing three. His pancake method is simple: a layer of maple syrup and whipped cream between each layer, the middle pancake layered with fruit. 

“Whatever you say, baby.” Harry murmurs, and Louis has to set down his fork, gripping the table with whitening fingers.  _ Don’t call me baby again _ .

“Don’t call me that.” Louis says peevishly, abrupt. Harry glances at him, mildly surprised- he’s never, after all, objected to it before. Louis rolls his eyes, retrieving his fork and cutting into the pancake stack. “It gives Zayn the wrong impression,” He lies, “And I’d rather not add to the smug look on his insufferable face, thanks.”

Harry huffs a laugh, turning back to the bacon. 

  
_  
Interlude: II   
_  


There’s something about knowing people are hurting the love of your life, and that you’re one of them. Harry’s always thought so, anyway.

Louis is stoic and distracting as usual, but Harry remembers the look of him, spine overrun with trembling, eyes fixed resolutely to the floor. He’s  _ hurting _ . 

_ You’re just so- everyone loves you, Harry. God knows I love you so bad it hurts sometimes. And that’s- fantastic, wonderful, and you can go to gay bars with your beard and no one gives a shit, and there are blogs dedicated to how my fake relationship is fake and I want to be allowed to wear something that isn’t fucking denim and muscle tees, okay, like, can I just, why can’t I- _

He’s hurting. And Harry’s watching now- he’s always watching, really, even though Louis calls him a stalker, only now he’s looking for it. Looking for the parcels of hidden hurt, the things Louis hides away, beside the veneer of a brave face he plasters on for the world. The way his eyes fall to the ground whenever someone says something teasing about Harry’s supposed trysts with older women, how he shrinks into himself whenever someone invites him to go out, like he already knows what’s going to happen.

_ It’s stupid. Fuck. But like, if you Google ‘gay wrist’, I’m the first image there, and I hate that. And that sounds- fucking homophobic or some shit, but that’s why I can’t- it’s because of shit like that I can’t- and I’m so - and I just. Want. Um. I can’t, I want _ -

Harry wants to give him everything he wants. That’s always been it, really- even when they were two boys searching for something truer in the X Factor house, sixteen and eighteen and overrun by feeling, starry-eyed and shy, still. It manifested in the little things at first- when Louis asked for tea, Harry was the first one out of his seat; when Louis was cold, Harry already had a blanket waiting; when Louis was funny and gregarious, Harry was always the loudest one laughing.

Harry loves him overwhelmingly, loves him like no one’s loved anything before,  _ ever _ \- if Louis was mute and blind, Harry would love him, if Louis chose to quit the band and become a MacDonald’s employee, Harry would quit, too, and show up at all hours of the day. It frightens him, sometimes, the force of his love. But.

Louis is different, now. He’s quieter in interviews and Harry watches the way he girds his wrist, keeps it straight and stiff. He can almost hear the refrain of his thoughts:  _ straight, straight, straight, don’t be fucking  _ **_gay_ ** _ ,  _ and it hurts him because Louis is hurting.

He’s still loud and mischievous and ruthless in private, of course, but Harry wants him to be able to be himself whenever, wherever. It’s so, so, intimate- knowing the rules and insecurities of another’s soul, wanting things for them that they haven’t dared to want for themselves out loud. 

He hates himself sometimes, because of how blind he was to it, before. How blithely he would go out with Nick, taking Kendall to gay clubs and grinding on random bodies, missing his blue-eyed boy but content in the moment. Louis  _ can’t _ , Harry realises. Louis isn’t  _ allowed _ to do half of the things he is. That hurts, and it hurts when Louis clears his throat in an attempt to deepen his voice, when he doesn’t talk and when he pretends not to understand theatre references, when he walks stiffly and squares his shoulders, because he’s trying  _ so hard _ to be something he’s  _ not _ , trying because of  _ stupid _ shit that people say.

Harry thinks a lot, during 2014. He thinks about the past years, about rainbow flags and blue and green hearts, about the deep well of wanting in his boy’s eyes, that looks a lot like  _ things I can’t _ . He wants Louis with him, always, wants to wear silk and lace and pretty clothes in public, not just in private, wants Louis to be able to curl an arm around him onstage and smile at him without people tearing them apart. Wants them to stop fighting, wants them to be able to share their intimacy with the whole world, wants to shout  _ do you see him, look at how beautiful he is, look at him _ . Wants things to  _ relax _ , wants their tours to stop feeling like going into battle. 

It’s not an easy decision- never an easy decision - and he has a feeling he’ll never stop wondering if it was a mistake. But he does it, because when Harry puts his mind to something, he doesn’t do it half-way.

It hurts, too, to watch Louis stare at him, big blue eyes and confused longing. Hurts when Louis is quieter, when Louis shrinks away from him, when Louis tries again and again and again.  _ I love you, I promise _ he wants to scream,  _ I know you’re trying, darling, baby, sweetheart, but you have to just let it happen. Not for forever, promise _ .

He almost tells Louis half-a-dozen times, almost breaks and spills everything when Louis looks at him like  _ that _ . God. But if he tells Louis, Louis will convince him out of it, and he’s come this far, he can’t  _ give up _ . When he does it, the final splintering, a severing of cords and ties, he can’t help himself from begging, begging for parts of Louis he has no right to but will ask for anyway, God help him. The light is white and he leaves the room and writes  _ Ever Since New York _ in a blur of gasps and tears.  _ Oh, tell me something I don’t already know _ .

( _ I’m having a baby _ , Louis tells them, eyes bright. And Harry can’t help the horror that slides over him, because once he promised Louis forever, but Louis is building another forever without him, and it’s all his  _ fault _ .)

( _ I’m going out _ , Louis tosses over his shoulder, irreverent shoulders and fuck-me jeans; comes back smelling like sex and stale sweat and Harry hides in his bunk, unable to face his reality.)

( _ Hey, Haz _ , Louis smiles at him, soft in the pale light of the hallway.  _ End up meeting in the hallway every single night, and there’s nothing we can do about it _ . He looks so gorgeous, soft hair and blue eyes and everything Harry’s ever wanted and he can’t help but press him against a wall and take, take, take, because Harry’s so  _ fucking _ selfish.)

In 2017, Louis says  _ nothing’s changed.  _ Says  _ you arrogant son of a bitch _ (he files that away in his head for later), says  _ I thought you’d stopped wanting me, you don’t even know how fucking lost I felt. I tried to be quiet because you kept shushing me, I thought I was too- too loud for you, too much, I tried to be good enough. You made me hate myself, do you know? You’re the only one who’s ever made me want to be anything else than what I was. 2015 was the worst fucking year of my life. _ And Harry can’t breathe for hating himself, can only stare, aghast, because the  _ one _ thing he’d always promised he wouldn’t do- hurt Lou - he’d done with careless hands, thinking it was for the best.

_ I was always thinking about you, and whenever I didn’t think about you it was because I wanted to prove I could not think about you for a few minutes; You ruined me for a year; You were everything and you’d dumped me and I felt like nothing; you did that to me, even if it was meant to be temporary, and I’ve never forgiven you for it. _

Harry pleads, knowing it’ll do no good-  _ everything has changed  _ \- because he can’t  _ not _ try, even though God knows he doesn’t fucking deserve Lou. He really, really, doesn’t, but he tries anyway, hopelessly, helplessly. See, Louis has a  _ son _ , has a life easily separated from Harry, and Harry can’t possibly insert himself into it. Having hurt someone is a terrible thing, because he can’t fight for them, can’t because he doesn’t deserve to. 

_ It’s such a fine line, Harry _ .

(The years pass. Camille, Olivia, a string of phone calls that he relies on like nicotine. Louis’ moved on, he must have. They’re friends, best friends.)

You have a whole fucking life without me, Harry thinks now; you have friends I don’t know, you have a son you’ve never asked me to meet, you have Zayn and Eleanor and Freddie. Where could I possibly fit?

They fall asleep on a couch, and it’s rigid and uncomfortable but he’s wrapped around Louis and that’s what matters, so he doesn’t say a word.

He wakes gradually, tugged out of the undertow by familiar voices.

_ Be quieter, you’re going to wake him _ . Too late, Harry thinks peevishly, too late, say what you want to say. What secrets are you keeping?

He hears what they have to say, and his mind goes white with shock and clarity.

(He thinks a lot in 2014 but doesn’t bother thinking at all in 2022. He knows, immediately and intimately, what he has to do.)

  
  


Harry’s smiling and happy and Louis is suspicious. There is no conceivable reason for him to be so  _ upbeat _ , Jesus.

“Stop smiling,” Louis orders, and immediately, Harry’s face bows into a deep and exaggerated frown. “Stop that, too.” Louis says, weakly.

Harry smiles again. Ugh.

“The lad’s happy,” Niall says through a mouthful of pancakes, “Leave him alone.”

“No one is allowed to be happy.” Louis says, putting his head in his arms. “I forbid it.”

“Aw,” Liam coos, leaning over the table and giving him a noogie, “Is someone grumpy today?” 

Louis hisses at him, catlike. God, Liam should be banned. No one that… healthy should exist. 

“We should work on the album.” Harry chirps. Zayn makes a half-hearted sound. Louis lifts his head, rubbing at his eyes. “Alright, then.”

“So.” Liam says. They’re gathered around the floor, staring at him. He smiles, nervous. “We should share the songs we’ve already written.”

“I’ve got four,” Harry says, promptly. Louis stills. The EP is in his bag. He doesn’t want to share it.

“Cool.” Liam says, nodding. “So…”

“The CD’s in my suitcase, hang on.” Harry says, stretching. He stands and makes for the door easily, and Louis can’t help but watch him, envious.

“Here,” Harry says, CD in his hand. He bends, slides the CD into the player, presses play. “The first one’s called  [ _ Changes _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_YmNAGKuS8) .”

Louis tips his head back, listens. Guitar strings, easy and plucky.  _ There is a town, somewhere down a country road _ , Harry sings,  _ I see it now, I take it everywhere I go /The river sways, I can almost hear it now / As if to say, you’re not the only one who wants a way out. _

The pre-chorus builds, and then Harry’s singing  _ Somewhere out in the big wild country, someone's falling in love in a backseat / Giving' it away / Like their hearts won't ever break / God bless the young hearts sippin' cheap wine / Getting drunk with their friends for the first time Thinking nothing's gonna change / 'Til everything changes _ .

It’s beautiful. More country than Louis would have expected from Harry, but not surprising. Their second single, maybe. Nostalgic, sad, but not too down-hearted. 

“What do you guys think?” Harry says, unexpectedly shy. 

“It’s beautiful, Hazza.” Louis says, softly, and Harry smiles at him, a burst of light. Their band-mate's words- agreeing, encouraging - float past him, a white stream of static tuned by the exact breadth and frequency of Harry’s smile.  _ Calm down. _

“The next one’s called  [ _ Afterglow _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uRGwtdt8q9M) ,” Harry says, fiddling with the CD player. “I wrote it with Ed, but he’s alright with us using it for the album.”

Guitar strings, again. Harry’s voice is soft and high, thready and acoustic. 

_ Stop the clocks it’s amazing / You should see the way the light dances off your hair / A million colours of hazel, golden and red / Saturday morning is fading / The sun's reflected by the coffee in your hand / My eyes are caught in your gaze all over again. _

Louis stills, closing his eyes, because he can  _ see _ it, a lazy Saturday morning during 2017, Harry smiling at him over morning coffee.  _ The weather outside's changing /The leaves are buried under six inches of white / The radio is playing, Iron & Wine / This is a new dimension / This is a level where we're losing track of time / I'm holding nothing against it, except you and I. _

(2013, the snowfall and Iron & Wine on the radio, Harry knowing all the words and Louis pretending not to, laughter and slow-dancing in the kitchen.)

_ We were love drunk, waiting on a miracle _

_ Tryna find ourselves in the winter snow _

_ So alone in love like the world had disappeared _

_ Oh, I won't be silent and I won't let go _

_ I will hold on tighter 'til the afterglow _

_ And we'll burn so bright 'til the darkness softly clears. _

God,  _ fuck _ . Except Harry  _ hadn’t _ held on to the afterglow, he’d abandoned them while they were still burning bright. It’s like Meet Me In The Hallway, it’s the way he victimizes himself and Louis is unexpectedly angry, shaking with it because this isn’t  _ fair _ , the way Harry writes him love songs. 

Harry pauses the CD after the song’s finished, biting his lip. “How was it?”

“You  _ know  _ it’s gorgeous,” Liam gushes, “God, that was amazing. Could even be our first single, what do you guys think?” Niall nods in agreement.

Harry glances at him. “Lou?”

Louis forces a smile. “It was great.”

Harry frowns, biting at his lip again. “Lou-”

“I thought you said there were four songs?” Zayn interrupts, and Louis exhales in relief, slumping against the wall as Harry turns back to the CD player, pressing  _ play _ .

The next song is a rockier one, reminiscent of Only Angel and Kiwi. Louis relaxes listening to it, because  [ _ Cringe _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KaJqLCMUt7s) isn’t  _ personal _ in the way that the other two were. This is- fine.

_ I said I saw you in the water _ , Harry wails, guitar strumming frenetically, and Louis can see Niall nodding along to the music, grinning. He’s smiling himself, because it’s so  _ Harry _ .

“That was  _ sick _ ,” Niall enthuses when Harry pauses the CD, “Maybe our third single, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry beams, and then turns to look at Louis, the line of his head and the tilt of his chin atavistic in the studio light. “What do you think, Lou?”

Louis grins, and it doesn’t feel forced. “It’s great, H.”

Harry bends, presses play. “This one’s called [ _Lego House_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_hGXmTghS4) .” He adds, belatedly, as the first notes play.

Right away, it’s- God.  _ I’m going to pick up the pieces _ /  _ And build a lego house _ Harry sings, and Louis can almost see him performing it- a pool of weak yellow light, the colours stained with a rime of bromide, just a guitar and his voice on the cobblestones.  _ If things go wrong we can knock it down.  _ You  _ did _ knock it down, Louis thinks silently, frantically, you knocked it down before anything went wrong, please don’t do this to me. It’s not fair.

_ My three words have two meanings / But there’s one thing on my mind / It’s all for you _ .

(Louis shrinks into the corner, arse on the carpet and hands tightening over his knees, because love songs hurt.  _ For each man kills the thing he loves _ , &c.)

_ And it’s dark in a cold December / But I’ve got you to keep me warm / If you’re broken I will mend you / And keep you sheltered from the storm that’s raging on now _ .

God,  _ fuck _ him, Louis thinks, inanely. God,  _ fuck Harry _ . 

_ I'm out of touch, I'm out of love _

_ I'll pick you up when you're getting down _

_ And out of all these things I've done _

_ I think I love you better now _

_ I'm out of sight, I'm out of mind _

_ I'll do it all for you in time _

_ And out of all these things I've done _

_ I think I love you better now, now. _

The song continues but Louis doesn’t hear it, staring abruptly and fixedly at the carpet. It’s these things that comprise what people don’t see about Harry Styles, how impertinent he can be, how insolent, because God knows they couldn’t- they couldn’t - 

_ And it's so hard to say it but I've been here before _

_ Now I'll surrender up my heart and swap it for yours. _

The song runs its way, gorgeous and perfect and unfair, and then Harry smiles like the sun and looks at  _ Louis _ and says, slow and deep and selfish, “What do you think?”

Abruptly, Louis stands, tearing his way out of the room and making his way to the bathroom. 

It’s so unfair. He’s being _so unfair_ , playing _love songs_ for Louis, knowing all the while that they _can’t_. It’s unfair in the way that Meet Me In The Hallway was unfair but it’s also unfair the way that Sweet Creature was unfair. “ _Wherever I go,_ _you bring me home_ ” is _such_ a tremendously unfair thing to sing to your _ex_ , and “ _I’ll surrender up my heart / And swap it for yours_ ” is, too. Harry never really changes, Louis thinks wryly, because _God_.

Bathroom. Mirror, his hand on the silver knob like something displaced. Twisting, the wrist-forearm movement that seemed to stretch on for hours. Slipping ghost-like inside and slamming the door shut, fingers gripping achingly at the sink counter. His reflection wavers in front of him- blue eyes, wet eyelashes.

I can’t lose you, don’t do this to me, don’t call me baby, don’t write songs about me. It’s  _ exhausting _ .

Calmly, Louis splashes water on his face, exits the bathroom, and strides over to his bag, ducking down and locating his EP easily. He slides it into the pocket of his hoodie and straightens, jogging back to the home studio room and sliding back into conversation.

“I have a few songs to share, too. Five, actually.” Louis says during a lull in conversation. He feels pressed-thin, all soul and sense escaping him. Out of body, out of mind. What’s he  _ doing _ ? 

Zayn’s eyes are wide. Harry’s looking at him attentively. “Can’t wait to hear.” Liam says cheerily, and Louis stands, blood rushing to his legs. Walks. Slides the CD into the expensive CD player. Pauses, and turns, index finger hovering over the  _ play _ button.

“I wrote these a long time ago. So, um. They might be a bit- emotional.” He says, awkwardly. Niall raises his brows. “How long ago?”

Louis swallows. Things leer and loom at him from the shadows. “2015.” He presses down before anyone has a chance to say anything else.

  
  


There’s a brief moment of static, and then there’s his voice, seven years younger and heartbroken. A coughing noise.  _ So, erm, this is my EP, called- shit, Ed, did I have a name for it? _

_ Nah, don’t think so, mate _ , Ed’s voice comes floating through, and younger Louis sighs, gustily.  _ Fuck it. Anyway, this is my EP. First song’s called  _ [ _ Swap Places _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HeZVOPDeRYQ) _. _

The sound cuts out again, and then it’s replaced by the first song.

The beat, bouncing and edgy. His voice, high and raspy and young.  _ I just want to know / If it’s real / Or if it even exists _ , he sings,  _ I just want to know / How it feels / To not have to feel like this _ . 

His voice soars, notes going higher. They fall into the chorus. 

_ Can I swap places with someone  _

_ Who’s kind of to themselves? _

_ Can I swap places with someone _

_ Who doesn’t want to be someone else? _

They fall out of the chorus, onto verse 2. The backing track is upbeat, but his younger self spits out the words, voice going rougher and lower, like every syllable has personally offended him. He sounds  _ angry _ .

Back into the chorus,  _ can I swap places _ ringing out, heartbroken and bitter. The final verses, which are- Louis winces to even hear them -  _ desperate _ , pleading. 

The song cuts off. Static. He can feel everyone  _ looking _ at him, can feel Harry’s eyes, but he doesn’t press  _ pause _ , just turns the volume knob up with a minute tilt of his wrist. Onwards. 

_ ‘Kay, _ his younger self drawls, cutting and disinterested in anything else but his own heartbreak.  _ Um, so the next song’s called  _ [ _ In My Blood _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlkBLwl4aBM) _ and I’m going to be getting a bit of help from me mate Ed on this one.  _ Static.

Strumming of a guitar, and then Ed’s voice.  _ Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in.  _ He’s still singing, his voice richening the sound, but it’s Ed’s guitar and vocals that stand out most.  _ Sometimes I feel like giving up, but I just can’t / It isn’t in my blood. _

Ed’s voice fades out, and Louis takes over. His younger self is brash with the vocals, high and raw and  _ good _ .

_ Help me _ , he sings.

His younger self’s voice is rough and lamenting, pleading in the only way he knows how. Listening to it- God, he hasn’t touched the CD in so long - pricks tears to his eyes.

_ Someone help me _ , his younger self sings, and it’s tragic and  _ true _ the way songwriting only rarely is, aching with poignancy. His voice soars, rough and shaking,  _ it isn’t in my blood! _

Ed takes over again, his own voice gleaming in the background, and then they get to the next chorus and Louis takes over again, voice handling the emotion with rough splendour.

They duet:  _ I need somebody now!  _ Their voices leap and twist for attention, for superiority, vocals blazing. Ed’s voice has gone acoustic and aching, Louis’ voice ringing and richly jagged. They have their own ways of breaking apart.

The song fades away after another pre-chorus, chorus, outro. His younger self’s pleading fades away, too. 

Louis opens his eyes, sees three aghast faces and Zayn’s knowing one. “ _ Lou _ ,” Harry begins, but Louis turns the volume up even higher and ignores him.

_ So _ , his younger self begins,  _ this one’s a bit of a fuck-you. Teensy, weensy bit. Enjoy. It’s called  _ [ _ Hurt Any Less. _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDLg5Zt3q6o)

The beat, loud and full. Backing track echoey and a bit spacey, interspersed with bold, strong, piano notes. 

His voice rings out more bitterly than it has in years.

_ I knew this was coming from day one _ , his younger self sings, vicious and a bit wry, broken heart held aloft in both hands like some sort of strange and arcane sacrifice.

_ Back there in September when we'd just begun, _

_ I was right but I've never wanted to be so wrong _ . His younger self laughs then, a brief humorless chuckle, and then sings, high and clear:

_ Why did you have to let me let you in? _

_ I don't let many people under my skin, _

_ I know that this is for the best, _

_ But it doesn't hurt any less. _

There’s a brief pause, and then his younger self sighs, shakily, and bounces into the next verse, clever and cutting.

_ People break each other's hearts _

_ In their individual ways. _

His voice is angrier now, furious and soaring with the little cruelties:  _ I'm not what you thought you wanted / But it was you who started this;  _ _ You tell me you were mistaken / But you can't give back what you've taken / How does it feel to be keeping it all? _ (Almost hysterical, high notes and gritted teeth.)

He sounds so angry, so self-righteous, so defiant. The rest of the song is similar, high notes and cruel vengeance, heartbroken and unsubtle.

_ Ha, so that was Hurt Any Less.  _ 2015-Louis laughs mirthlessly, and the air in the studio room hushes immediately, every mote of dust bearing witness.  _ Er, this next song’s also a bit- well. You’ll see. Here’s  _ [ _ Wicked Game _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y58r5vpIU1c) _. _

Drum-beats that sound like a horse’s hooves, clopping and demanding, the notes of his voice ominous.  _ I guess my problem’s always been / Giving people everything / And expecting the same _ , 2015-Louis sings, not even bothering to sound unbiased. The sound, all of it, takes him back to the whirl of hallucinogens, colours vast and vivid. Everything hurting.

It sounds like a villain’s song, Ed had commented when he’d heard the first bit, and it does, a bit.

_ Nobody ever taught me to play _

_ This wicked game _

_ This wicked, wicked game _

_ Where everything _

_ Is just too much and I'm never enough _ , Louis sings, voice faltering on  _ never _ .

His voice handles the next verse delicately, and then another chorus.

_ I've been thinking about death _ , 2015-Louis sings, almost too blithely for its truth.

_ But I'll hold my breath _

_ And I'll bite my tongue. _

They finish, one more chorus and more angry, heartbroken, verses. 2015-Louis clears his throat.  _ Hope you enjoyed that. Erm, this next one’s called  _ [ _ Thinking About _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZLPy3Fea2E) _. _

Piano notes, sparing and fierce. His voice is delicate, vulnerable and bare of anger in a way that the previous songs haven’t been.  _ Find myself in a house I’ve never been before / I’m wasted and I’m dancing dizzily / I know you would think I’m so far out of character / ‘Cause you know me.  _

It’s, if he's honest, one of his favorite songs of his. Piano and high vulnerability, heartbreak momentarily clear of fury. And the clouds part to reveal a sky dark and stripped of glory, sober and lonely.  _ All I’m thinking about / Is not thinking about you _ , 2015-Louis laments, honest and sad.  __

_ I'm thinking about you and you seem so unaffected _

_ And I'm fighting not to feel but nothing works _

_ Been chasing temporary highs and strangers and I'm tired. _

His younger self sings about emptiness, about absence and hurt, and the final lines of the outro ring out:  _ I’m thinking about you. I’m thinking about you. _

_ Hope you enjoyed, or whatever _ , 2015-Louis snarks, sighing briefly. The sound cuts out.

Louis blinks. He’s in the studio room, four sets of eyes staring at him. Harry’s are green and horrified. Zayn’s are sympathetic; Niall and Liam’s wide. “Um,” He says. “You don’t have to look at me like that, Christ. I wrote them in 2015, not yesterday.”

Silence. He straightens, plucking the CD out of the player and sliding it into its case. Blinks. Sits. Smiles, vicious and cutting. “So, what do we think? Any have album potential?” 

After another beat of silence, Liam says, slowly, “They’re all good, you know that. The second one, the one you dueted with Ed, could definitely be one of our singles. The others could all easily fit onto the album, although we might not want to include all of them because they’re a bit- sad.”

“Oops,” Louis says, sharply, “Sorry about that.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Liam sighs, tapping a brisk rhythm on the carpet. “Right,” Louis says after a moment, leaning his head back to gaze at the ceiling. “Sorry.”

Harry’s quiet after that, looking at Louis with large eyes. Liam and Niall share their songs, too. Niall has a song called [_Livewire_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42iR3O4guQA) that Louis loves- it’s nostalgic and echoey, the notes draped beautifully with longing. Liam’s written a song called [_Chew On My Heart_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvdYFFkOgAA) that’s upbeat and devoted and perfect. 

Zayn and Louis work on adapting  _ Make Me (Cry)  _ to fit a five-piece. They assign lyrics and debate over individual lines- the trouble is that part of its beauty is in its spare elegance, the bare bones of it. Adding more voices is a tricky thing, because  _ too much _ is an ever-present possibility. 

They break for lunch, Harry silently floating to the oven to heat up last night’s leftovers. Conversation flows easily, but there’s a new tenseness to the air, and Louis feels a brief flash of regret for playing his EP. 

He drags Harry by the arm to the bedroom, closing the door after him.  Déjà vu, except tinted by melilot noon light instead of nighttime. “I didn’t play it to punish you.” Louis says abruptly, scuffing a bare foot against the carpet.

Harry glances up. “I didn’t think you did.” He says, slowly. “I- It was hard to listen to, knowing that I was part of what made you feel like- like that. God, Lou. But you had every right to do it.”

“Well, if  _ you _ say it’s alright,” Louis snarks, and then rolls his eyes at himself. “Sorry, what I meant to say was that you can stop looking like a kicked puppy. It was shit, yeah. Like I’ve said already, it’s been  _ seven years _ .”

“Why’d you play it, then?” Harry asks, tilting his head. “Like, why now? You wrote them in 2015, why didn’t you release them before?”

Louis inhales, fixing his eyes on the window-glass. “I didn’t  _ want _ to,” He says, slowly. “We were so- we were just beginning to be friends again, I didn’t want to ruin that, and- honestly I hadn’t touched the CD in years, I was kind of ignoring it, because I didn’t want to think about it. I wasn’t actually planning to play it for you at all, today. But, um. You- your songs.”

“What about them?” Harry says. There’s a gleam of confidence in his eyes now, a new carriage to the bridge of his shoulders. He looks sure of himself.

“You can’t write love songs about me,” Louis says at last, eyes flicking up to Harry. “And,” He says in a rush, “And don’t you dare say they weren’t about me, because I  _ know _ -”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Harry interrupts, calmly. He tilts his head. “Why can’t I write love songs about you?”

Louis falters, mouth gaping, because he hadn’t expected that question. “Because,” He says, slowly, “Because you  _ know _ we can’t. We can’t, and it’s not fair to- to play love songs for me like we’re just another couple when you  _ know _ that.”

Harry drums restless hands on the nightstand, jaw tightening. “I understand what you're- what you’re saying, Lou, but you’re the love of my goddamn life, you know that. And you expect me to, what, write love songs for someone else? What exactly are you asking me for?”

Louis goes still. It’s strange how shocking it is, because he’s thought something similar over and  _ over _ again, even said it aloud to Zayn a couple of times. But to hear it from Harry’s lips is something else entirely, something that terrifies him. 

He’s moving before he can register it, pushing past Harry and tearing out of the door.

  
  
  


(They don’t talk about it again, glancing around each other for the rest of the night. Halfway to midnight, the door creaks open, and he doesn’t bother opening his eyes.  _ Can I _ \- Harry begins, and he murmurs his assent, peeling a corner of the coverlet back, beckoning. Harry slips inside and they fall asleep like that, all silent intimacy and things best left buried.)

  
  
  


They’re deep into the album work, now. This, the  four five of them channeling their chaos into music, is so, so, familiar. Zayn and Louis finish adapting  _ Make Me (Cry)  _ into a song fit for a five-piece. Zayn has most of the high notes, with a few left for Harry and Liam. Most of the song itself left to Louis and Niall- the most suitable voices for this sort of song, elegant in its lack of commiseration.

_ In My Blood _ is easy enough to fit for all four of them to sing, it being originally a duet. They finish recording it easily enough.  _ Lego House _ , too, is ridiculously easy- it’s a  _ One Direction type of song _ , as Zayn labels it wryly. (Louis ignores, as best he can, the way feelings press up against the walls of his throat when he sings it.) Liam and Niall take the first verse, Louis takes the pre-chorus ( _ and it’s dark in a cold December _ ) and Harry takes, of course, the first part of the chorus (all four of them sing the second part). 

_ Changes _ they belt out with ease, although they all make several edits on it-  _ gotta make it a little less country, H, it’s a One Direction album. _ They have trouble on  _ Afterglow _ , if only because Louis keeps changing  _ this is a new dimension  _ to  _ this is a new direction _ and Niall keeps cracking up. 

After a few nonproductive but ultimately enjoyable arguments, they decide to do a remastered version of  [ _ What Makes You Beautiful _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJO3ROT-A4E) , inspired by the various melodic changes they’ve made while singing it solo. Zayn, after much cajoling, deigns to sing on it as well.It’s slower, more mature, less  [ _ Summer Nights _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZW0DfsCzfq4) and more  _ Lumineers _ .  _ You’re insecure,  _ Liam sings, low,  _ don’t know what for _ . The emotion in his voice, dragging out the  _ don’t _ like he’s genuinely saddened by his subject’s insecurity.  _ Everyone in the room can see it _ , Harry sings, high and pleading,  _ everyone else but you _ . Instead of  _ that’s what makes you beautiful _ , they sing  _ but you’re always beautiful _ (this is mainly prompted by Harry showing them feminist criticisms and saying  _ this encourages girls to have low self-esteem! We are enablers of the patriarchy! _ ).

_ So c-come on, you got it wrong, _ Zayn sings, grudgingly,  _ to prove I’m right, I put it in a song _ . He plays with the melody, voice soaring at  _ song _ . There’s genuine anguish richening his voice when he sings  _ I don’t know why _ and  _ turn away when I look into your eyes. _

“We are  _ geniuses _ ,” Niall says when they listen to the complete version. Louis fist-bumps him. Somehow, this leads to them sprawling on the ground and fulfilling another One D tradition- listening to Niall’s tragic hookup stories.

“I was with this one girl, Jemima,” Niall says, eyes wide, “And we were in the hotel, right, and we’d just- you know, done it.”

“No,” Louis yawns, “We don’t know, Nialler. Go on, enlighten us- what  _ is _ ‘it’?”

“Wanker.” Niall mutters, pinching his side. He clears his throat and continues. “And like, we’d really connected, ya know, I thought we could be- something, I dunno. Maybe it’s stupid, after only one night-”

“It’s not stupid.” Harry tells him, patting his head. Niall smiles, briefly, and continues. “So we were in the hotel room and talked about breakfast and everything-”

“Wait,” Louis interrupts, “You talked about _breakfast_ _while_ you-”

“ _ No _ , God. Like, after. We were lying there and she said something about ordering room service in the morning. Anyway, when I woke up, she was gone. Didn’t even leave her phone number or anything.”

A chorus of coos and comforting words erupts, mainly from Harry and Liam. Niall smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And like, it’s so stupid, because if she  _ had _ left her phone number, I don’t know what I would’ve texted- what,  _ where were you in the morning _ ?”

_ Where were you in the morning _ ?It strikes him. Something catchy, to be sewn and buttoned onto a zesty melody, golden and glinting, garnering sympathy. Sure to be a hit, especially when attached to their reputations.

Louis tilts his head, hums a snippet of a memory from the dream.  [ _ Where were you in the morning _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRic28k8sVU) , he sings under his breath, catching a melody with deft fingers. His writing notebook sits on his lap already, and he leans to the left to grab a pen, jumper rucking up along his waist. The chorus comes easily: _ Where were you in the morning, baby? You didn’t leave your number for me / Left me without a warning, baby / Where were you in the morning, baby? / How do you, how do you just walk away? _

The first few lines are trickier, because atmosphere is difficult to capture if you’re not writing from personal experience. He leaves verse 1 aside for now, focuses on the details he knows, already. Writing about someone else’s story- something Ed’s done for them, God, so many times - is an imperfect art, details always slipping through your fingers.  _ And I thought you really felt this / When we were talking about breakfast / You made it seem like we connected / I guess I just didn't expect this. _

He mouths it silently under his breath, stringing it together and adding another few lines after the verse. A few ideas for verse 1, although maybe Niall should take over. He clears his throat. “Ni, I think I got something.” 

Niall turns. The conversation’s moved on already, onto Niall’s unfortunate mishaps with Ellie Goulding, but Louis hums a snatch of the melody to center himself anyway, singing what he has so far. “That’s  _ brilliant _ , Lou.” Niall says, after he’s finished, making impatient gestures for the notebook. Louis hands it over, pen tilted towards him. 

There’s a peculiar powerlessness to handing over his writing notebook to someone else, irrational as it is. His hands clench on empty air by his sides; flower buds curling up with lack of water.

“Okay,” Niall says, clearing his throat. “Okay, so what about this:  _ You said I want to get to know ya / Why you gotta get my hopes up? / You said that you were staying over / But then I woke up to the cold air _ .” He closes his mouth and looks at Louis expectantly.

Louis shrugs.“Your song, not mine.”

Niall beams up at him, and Louis smiles back involuntarily.

So,  [ _ Where Were You In The Morning _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRic28k8sVU) becomes another song to add to their album. After a few touchy conversations, he and Liam edit  _ Hurt Any Less, In My Blood, Thinking About,  _ and _ Wicked Game _ to better suit their sound.  _ In My Blood _ and  _ Hurt Any Less  _ hardly need any tweaking, while  _ Thinking About _ needs heavy editing. The sole voice strung along haunting piano isn’t really possible for a band, but they direct the high notes Harry’s way, assign most of the verses to Louis, the bridge and pre-choruses to Niall, and the outro to Liam. 

_ Wicked Game _ is catchy, yes, but they need to iron out the parts where Louis used male pronouns.  _ We don’t have to if you don’t want to _ , Liam says, but both of them know it’s a lie.

  
  


So far, they have thirteen songs.  [ _ Make Me (Cry) _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXyBcKV0UIo) _ ,  _ [ _ Changes _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_YmNAGKuS8) _ ,  _ [ _ Afterglow _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NGQfFCFUn4) _ ,  _ [ _ Cringe _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KaJqLCMUt7s) _ ,  _ [ _ Lego House _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4BLVznuWnU) _ ,  _ [ _ In My Blood _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlkBLwl4aBM) _ ,  _ [ _ Hurt Any Less _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDLg5Zt3q6o) _ ,  _ [ _ Wicked Game _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y58r5vpIU1c) _ ,  _ [ _ Thinking About _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZLPy3Fea2E) _ ,  _ [ _ Livewire _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42iR3O4guQA) _ ,  _ [ _ Chew On My Heart _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3J7ZKdCx-g) _ ,  _ [ _ What Makes You Beautiful  _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJO3ROT-A4E) _ (Remastered)  _ and  [ _ Where Were You In The Morning _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRic28k8sVU) .

“Lads,” Niall says the next morning, blinking drowsy light of his eyes, “Hate to jinx it, but did we just finish the album in a week?”

Louis glances up, fending off Harry’s fork with his own. “God, get your own stack of pancakes.” He mutters, kicking Harry’s foot under the table. They’ve been acting normal, ignoring it, but there’s undeniably a new thread of tension tightening underneath all of their interactions, a terrifyingly true melody under the countless false descants. Their most benign interactions seem lacking somehow, falsities exposed. 

Anyway, Niall was saying something. “What was that?” Louis says absentmindedly, licking his fork. Niall rolls his eyes.

“I said, did we just finish the album in a week?”

Louis blinks, setting his fork down, ignoring Harry’s cry of victory. “We did, didn’t we.” Louis says. It’s not a question, but there’s an inflection of awe to it as well- this might be the fastest they’ve ever finished an album, solo or together.

He supposes it has to do with the five of them, together again. Such a small space, songs bubbling up from nowhere. Even if Zayn only sang on two songs, his presence is undeniably effective. 

They “celebrate” the rest of the day, Niall driving out to some mysterious locale with Harry’s car and returning with bottles of wine. Louis nips at his glass throughout the day, taking sparing sips. The taste of wine floods his senses, sensory perception fading in favor of memory. 

It’s a lazy day, as much as Niall hyps up their “lad’s celebration”. Sunshine and slow sipping, reminiscing and bare skinned sprawling. At one point, they elect to swim, stripping off their clothes and diving into the water. Ordinarily, Louis would protest, preferring to lounge under the fading sunbrella, warm and dry. 

Today though, there’s something different, the day tinged with the tannins of cabernet sauvignon. Ice cream melting in Anne’s blue ceramic bowls, his body gone loose and chilled with the sway of pool-water. Everything tastes like vanilla and chlorine and red wine. 

Harry’s warm skin pressing up against his in the water.  _ Ships that pass in the night, and speak to each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak to one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. _

It feels like that- passing moments of skin pressed against skin, each one more jarring then the next, than a retreat to the impersonal cradle of water. Each time Harry’s braver, lingers longer, and Louis doesn’t know how to say  _ I don’t want you to go at all. Stay forever, please. _

Dinner is a platter of half-hearted sandwiches. The sharp tang of cheese and sweet-sour tomato on his tongue, slippery greens and whole-grain bread. More wine. Niall orders a whole birthday cake to be delivered, and the buttercream is rich on his tongue. 

It’s, overall, a good day.

He falls into bed, laughing, Harry burrowing into his side and curling one of his big hands over Louis’ hip. Sleep.

  
  


_ “Hey,” There’s a tall boy with dreads in front of him, beads clinking. Everything’s a-whirl, bodies spinning and slanting this way and that. The floor is tilting to and fro, and it’s terrifying. “Are you going to finish that?” _

_ Louis blinks, struggling to find his balance. He braces a hand on the bar. “No,” He begins, dragging his syllables out. He changes his mind almost immediately because hey, he  _ paid _ for this drink, okay. It belongs to him. And like, possession is nine-tenths of the law. What’s the other tenth? Maybe consent should be the other tenth. Everything’s blurring, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he registers the tall boy prying the drink out of his slackened fingers.  _

_ “That’s mine.” Louis slurs, but the tall boy’s already gone. He looks to his left, and the room falls away. _

_ He’s splayed out on a bed now, and this isn't strange to him. He belongs here, dirty sheets and the overwhelming smell of tobacco and sex. There’s no one on the bed with him, and he’s lonely, wants warmth. He misses his mum.  _

_ He looks to his right, spots flecks of black on the sheets. He knows instinctively that it’s tobacco. Everything makes sense these days. Nothing makes sense these days. Reality is a hard thing to find. Reality is everywhere. _

_ These days, what are these days? These nights, maybe. He wants to, has to, needs to vomit, so he does, turning on his side and gagging onto the sheets. He feels- sick, shaky and spent and looking at the vomit coating the cotton disgusts him. He stumbles to his feet, swaying. He’s forgotten his name. _

_ As soon as he takes his first step, the carpet caves underneath him. Nubbly Oriental carpet, lush and peacock coloured, the floor flooding around his senses and dragging him down. Quicksand. Everything smells impersonal, like airports and carpet cleaners and hotel spray. His head aches, aches, aches- _

It’s dark and it’s warm and he’s suffocating under the weight of sheets and limbs, everything confusing. His mouth tastes sour, bile rising in his throat, but there’s someone in the bed  _ with _ him and he’d thought he was alone-

His name is Louis. 

Louis inhales, awareness trickling back in. Harry’s sleeping next to him. He’s in the bungalow. He had a nightmare. 

Louis slides out of bed, tucking a stray pillow in Harry’s arms for comfort. The bathroom isn’t far, but every touch of bare skin on floorboards is  _ loud _ , the sound echoing through the house no matter how quietly he tries to step.

He shuts the door as soon as he makes it inside, a hand twisting the faucet. The sound of running water screens the sound of him vomiting.

Louis doesn’t want to look at what’s in the toilet- the remains of dinner, birthday cake, bile. His throat feels scraped raw, and he’s crying, quietly. Suddenly, he wants Jay, misses her so terribly it hurts. He feels small, and little, and sick. 

He flushes the toilet twice and vomits again as soon as the water’s clear, dry-heaving once there’s nothing left but bile.

Flush, once, twice, three times. Louis won’t be able to sleep, he knows that much.

Instead, he wipes his mouth and brushes his teeth, tip-toeing to the studio room. It’s been fitted with soundproofing, so he’s safe. 

Once inside the studio room, Louis slides to the floor, the carpet dragging on the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms. He curls up like that, shivering. Words are rather useless, so he abandons every half-formed aposiopesis, every sentence left jumbled on the floor in strings. His skull fills with cotton, blurred and comforting.

He wants his mum  _ so much _ . The ghost of her, the essence of what makes Jay Deakin, it is at once absent and present. The absence of her presence is what is really present, he thinks. And she’s  _ not _ here. A narrow grief invades him, selfish and ecclesiastical. 

The only thing he can seek comfort in is himself, and he’s not enough- the thinness of him, ribs tapering to a narrow waist, legs wiry with muscle. 

There’s far too little softness to his body. Softness is a sort of precursory requirement for comfort, he thinks, and then realises as he does that he’s thinking in words again. 

He’s being childish, he knows. He’s cold but unwilling to get up, grab a blanket. Action is the simplest path to relief, but he can’t bring himself to move. He’s being  _ useless _ .

Louis’ just sitting there, in an awkward half-crouch, when the tune comes to him, running through his ragged nest of thoughts. Ariadne’s thread.

_ There’s  _ [ _ tobacco in my sheets _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHgNssQzvbE) _ , I know you won’t be proud… _

Louis lifts his head from his arms, picks up a half-crumpled sheaf of paper, a pen. Spooling his thoughts into paper is easier than anything, the pen skidding easily across the page. His hand is limp, the tension in his body coiled everywhere else, and the pen glides like it has no spine, fluid and weightless. 

He tries out a few melodies, settles on one. It’s a bit like  _ Thinking About _ , haunting and unabashedly vulnerable. Baring the strike of his throat to the cool moonlight. A sort of defiance in his lack of shame. 

It’s like writing a letter to Jay, everything he wishes he could have said during those long terrible months after she’d left. Before, too, when she was still alive and he didn’t want to be. 

Louis stands, makes his way to the keyboard, tests out a few notes. “There’s  _ tobacco _ in my  _ sheets _ ,” He sings softly, fingers finding the keys and playing a forceful accompaniment, “I  _ know _ you  _ won’t _ be  _ proud _ ,” Louis pauses. He’s rusty on the keyboard, his hands taking too long to find the notes. His hands are too small, as well, the breadth of them hardly spanning an eighth. 

“You always  _ taught _ me not to  _ be _ the kind of  _ man _ I  _ seem _ to be becoming  _ now _ .” Louis hums over the piano. He continues this way, humming and searching for elusive notes, hands fretting over the pale keys, until he’s gotten a few verses down and memorised.

_ There’s tobacco in my sheets, I know you won’t be proud _

_ You always taught me not to be the kind of man that I seem to be becoming now _

_ There's an empty bag of something' _

_ On the table by my bed _

_ Yeah, I know you wouldn't like it but _

_ It's the only thing that gets him out my head _

_ Oh mama, I hope you understand _

_ 'Cause when daddy broke your heart, I held your hand _

_ I'm not a smoker or a drinker _

_ Just a crazy overthinker _

_ And I need a little medicine _

_ I hope your broken heart, it understands. _

He should probably  _ not _ use male pronouns- knows from years of experience that removing them will only hurt more - but this is for Mum, and he has to be honest, if only in the first draft.

_ There's someone that I hardly know _

_ Knocking at my door _

_ He's a pretty good distraction _

_ But he's not even a fraction of the one before _

_ And if I'm being honest _

_ I'm starting to scare myself _

_ No, I hate to disappoint you _

_ But if I can't tell you, I can't tell nobody else. _

He fiddles more with the melody, trying out different notes. The mic that Harry’s set up comes with different effects, and experimentally, he switches the reverb one, singing  _ I swear I’m sorry if I’m letting you down _ into the silvery grille. 

By morning, he’s finished  [ _ Tobacco In My Sheets _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHgNssQzvbE) . His eyes  _ ache _ with the effort of it all, and he’s tired of feeling the way he feels- cold, hungry, sad, every miniscule portion of his body thrumming with discontent. 

He makes his way to the kitchen counter, opening the freezer and skeptically eyeing its contents. “Thank Christ above,” Louis says aloud, crossing himself. “There’s toaster waffles.”

“Seems a bit like sacrilege, doesn’t it?” Harry says behind him sleepily, and he jumps.

“Fuck, Harry.” Louis says, spinning around and pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. Harry’s almost naked, all warm skin and tattoos as familiar to him as his own, the grooves of his muscles new and strange. 

“You left me alone in bed.” Harry pouts, leaning on the counter. “Par for the course, innit?” Louis mutters, and Harry pouts further. 

“Make me a toaster waffle?”

“Make it yourself, you little shit.” Louis grumbles, extracting the cardboard box and tossing it at Harry. Harry catches it with ease.

“I’ve never understood that,” Louis says, striding over to the counter and hopping on top of it, swinging his legs. “What, toaster waffles?” Harry inquires, busy opening the box and sliding several waffles into the toaster.

“No,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “How you can be so goddamn clumsy and still catch everything that people throw at you.”

“Ah.” Harry says, introspectively. “It has to do with learning juggling early on, I think.”

“For the love of God, shut the fuck up about juggling. What’s next, you used to work in a bakery?”

“You know it, baby.” Harry says, winking. Louis kicks a leg out half-heartedly, aiming for the goods. Harry dodges him.

“We need to work on the album.” Louis says, abruptly. Harry raises his brows, turning and leaning against the sink. “Thought we were finished?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “With songwriting, yes. Otherwise, it’s a mess. It’s not cohesive. We need to order it properly, right, so it sounds like there’s a narrative.”

Harry tilts his head, watching him steadily. In the morning, his eyes are shining and lamplike. “You know a lot about this.”

“Yes, well, dunno if you know but I used to be in a boyband.” Louis snaps, hands spasming on the edge of the counter. 

“Thought you might’ve,” Harry says, easily. “You look a bit like that Lewis Tomlinson bloke.”

“You look a bit like that curly haired cunt.” Louis says absently, sprawling backwards over the counter. It’s less of a counter and more of a marbled island.

“I’ve heard that one before,” Harry agrees, stretching. There’s a few popping noises, and Louis winces. His back’s always been shit.

“I wrote a new song.” Louis says, just as the toaster dings and the waffles pop skyward. Harry glances at him, a hand plucking the waffles out of the grille. 

“What, just now?”

“Yes,” Louis says vaguely, sliding off the counter and snatching two waffles and a plate. There’s syrup somewhere. Louis opens the fridge, looking for it. Chocolate syrup, a canister of whipped cream, strawberry syrup, vanilla-

“D’you know if we’re out of maple syrup?” Louis asks, not bothering to turn around.

“What’s- no, we should have syrup still, I used it yesterday - what's the song about?”

“It’s pretty self-explanatory.” Louis mimics, and Harry makes an exasperated noise behind him. Surveying the cold, palely lit shelf, Louis lands on a tiny, miniature bottle of maple syrup, which is better than nothing. He slides a hand around it and extracts it from the fridge, closing the door behind him and grabbing the necessary silverware.

“I’ve never answered one of your questions like that before,” Harry argues, keeping pace with him as he strides over to the dining table. “It’s only interview questions that I answer like that- if  _ you _ asked me what one of my songs was about, I’d tell you-”

“Most of your songs are about me.” Louis says, rolling his eyes and pouring syrup onto the plate. “I don’t need to ask.”

Harry begins coughing. Louis divides his waffle into four even sectors, pouring syrup onto each. 

“That may be true,” Harry says eventually, “But the point still stands. What’s your song about?”

Louis spears a section of waffle onto his fork and places it into his mouth, chewing daintily. He swallows, patting his mouth with a cloth napkin. “It’s about substance abuse.” Louis says after a moment, spearing the next portion of waffle.

Harry goes still behind him. “Is it- is that a joke, or are you - is it really?”

Louis places the portion of waffle in his mouth and begins slowly and delicately chewing. He’s missing-

“Harry,” Louis says after he’s swallowed, “Whipped cream.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please and fuck you.” 

Harry turns and strolls to the fridge, returning with a carton of heavy whipping cream, a bowl, and a whisk. Louis puts his head in his hands. “I meant the artificial whipped cream, H, not that fucking homemade stuff-”

“It’s  _ better _ for you.” Harry says, obstinately. “Cool Whip contains so many preservatives.”

“So I’ll live forever.” Louis rolls his eyes, sprawling out in his chair. “You are what you eat.”

“That’s not how it works,” Harry informs him, whipping the cream vigorously. Louis watches in fascinated horror. “Preservatives actually have a detrimental effect on-”

“I don’t care.” Louis interrupts, drawing his fork through the pool of crumb-muddled syrup. 

“You  _ like _ the homemade whipped cream, Lou-”

“Yes, but Cool Whip and I are kindred souls-”

“Oh, Anne of Green Gables references, cute-”

“ My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes.” Louis quotes acidly, tracing a mandala in the syrup.

Harry turns, raising a brow. “Have you  _ actually _ read Anne of Green Gables?”

“Nah, but the girls ‘ave. Used to dress up as Anne for Halloween, didn’t they.”

“That’s adorable,” Harry says appreciatively, turning back to his whipped cream and resuming the whisking process. “I used to dress up as Anne of Green Gables, too, mainly because she shared my mum’s name.”

“I haven’t seen  _ those _ pictures.” Louis smirks, raising a teasing brow and licking his lips lavisciously.

“And you never will.” Harry mutters, whisking more vigorously. “God, I wish Mum had never shown you the Snow White photos-”

“You looked more like Snow White than Lily Collins did, love.”

“I loved that movie,” Harry sighs dreamily, “I wanted to wear a dress based on the finale scene-”

Louis raises his brows. “ [ The yellow and blue one ](https://www.google.com/search?q=mirror+mirror+lily+collins&tbm=isch&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi55p3TtsTuAhUNqZ4KHQdyCd8QBXoECAEQLQ&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=WsGyXncLYwH9lM) ?”

“God, yes.”

“Could try to pitch that look for the first of t’live shows.”

Harry turns, still whisking. “That reminds me, d’you think they’ll try to make us wear skinny jeans again?”

Louis begins drawing an anatomically correct circumcised penis in the syrup. “They’re not that bad.” He says, distracted.

“Once you’ve worn-”

“What, head-to-toe floral Gucci?” Louis says, glancing up incredulously.

Harry makes a face. “You’d look lovely in  Alessandro Michele, don’t put yourself down.”

“I’ll stick to joggers, thanks. But  [ you do look right fit in Gucci ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+gucci+met+gala&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk00OSCCvNNLL9ipDLMLifQXiBMfkTQ:1611432084864&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjMtv2n7LLuAhWFMX0KHd-IAcMQ_AUoAXoECCEQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=T3kYYNailEIU-M) .” Louis returns, diplomatically.

“Thanks,” Harry says, smiling. “Anyway, what I meant was- like, I don’t want to go back to the-”

“Standard boyband skinnies?” Louis finished, raising both brows in question. Harry wrinkles his nose, and Louis has to laugh. “Oh, we’ve got a diva ‘ere, haven’t we.”

“Not a  _ diva _ ,” Harry protests, mulishly. “I just don’t want to- I want to be able to-”

“I know what you mean, H. Yeah, don’t exactly fancy squeezing this arse into skinnies again-”

“ _ You still have to squeeze into your jeans, but you’re perfect to me _ .” Harry sings, intimate and slow. He’s stopped whisking for the moment.

“God, you sap.” Louis rolls his eyes, hiding his smile in his sweater sleeve, pulled over his knuckles.

Once all of the boys have filed in, they fall into breakfast and then the studio room. Louis plays  _ Tobacco In My Sheets _ once for them, pressing  _ play _ and immediately vacating the room. He comes back after exactly five minutes, loudly entering the room and clapping his hands together. 

“So, what do we think? Be flattering but honest.”

“Louis, I think-” Liam starts, and- no.

“I changed my mind, be flattering.” Louis interrupts, clapping his hands over his ears. 

“It’s gorgeous, Lou.” Harry says, voice deep. “It doesn’t seem like a song that we should be singing, though.”

Louis tilts his head. “And what does that mean?”

Harry blanches. “I didn’t mean- I meant-”

“I think what Harry means,” Niall interrupts, “Is that it’d feel like we were intruding if we put it on the album. It’s so personal.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean for us to put it on t’album, Nialler. I wanted feedback.”

There’s a moment of confusion, and then praise is spilling forth. “It’s beautiful-” Harry gets out, before Liam interrupts with “Could be your best yet, Lou.” Zayn throws his lot in with “It’s a song I wish I could have written, babes,” and Niall blurts: “It made me cry.”

Louis stares at them in silence. “We’re such a mess.” He says after several long moments. “We’re genuinely such a mess. Who even fucking  _ are _ we?”

“We!” Niall says, winking. Harry picks it up first.

“Are!” Harry says jubilantly, fist-pumping.

“One!” Liam inserts. They all look at Zayn expectantly. Zayn blinks, heavy-lidded.

“Direction!” Zayn says at last, and there’s a group cheer. Louis collapses onto the carpet. “Boys,” He says mournfully, “We’re the best boyband there goddamn is.”

“YES WE ARE.” Niall booms. “Now,” Louis adds, “We should get to work on the fucking album, eh?”

There’s a chorus of scattered agreement, and Louis pulls the list of songs towards him, critically. 

“Now,” He says, “Think we’ve agreed that  [ _ Changes _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_YmNAGKuS8) is the first single, yeah?”

Niall makes a noise of agreement, Liam nodding earnestly and Harry bobbing his head slowly. Zayn closes his eyes, yawning.

“Right.” Louis says, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and scrawling  _ Changes  _ in messy handwriting at the top of the sheet.

“Now, I think we can also agree tha’  [ _ Afterglow _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NGQfFCFUn4) should be the last.” Louis states, writing  _ Afterglow _ presumptively on the bottom of the page. Liam makes a noise of excitement. “Oh, because  _ afterglow _ is like  _ after _ -”

“Yes, Liam, I am a genius. Now, all in favor say ‘aye’.”

There’s a chorus of ayes. Louis underlines  _ Afterglow _ twice. “So these songs are all quite good but thematically, they’re a goddamn mess. We need to focus on the narrative we’d like to portray, right, because otherwise it’ll be written off as a mess by the critics.”

Silence. Louis glances up. 

“Well?”

“Aye.” Zayn says, eyes closed. Louis sighs.

“Right, so we’ll be focusing the negative songs in the beginning and middle.  [ _ Changes _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_YmNAGKuS8) is more nostalgic than sad, but it’ll work well as a sort of prologue, a lead-up. I’m thinking  [ _ Make Me (Cry) _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXyBcKV0UIo) as our second single, and then  [ _ Wicked Game _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y58r5vpIU1c) or maybe  [ _ Hurt Any Less _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDLg5Zt3q6o) . After that we can put-” He circles  _ Wicked Game  _ and  _ Hurt Any Less _ on the page, writes the next song under it. 

“After that we can put  [ _ In My Blood _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlkBLwl4aBM) there, ‘cos it’s proper vulnerable, right, and then whichever one we didn’t put before  _ In My Blood _ will go after it. Then  [ _ Thinking About _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZLPy3Fea2E) , which is also quite vulnerable. We’ve got a lot of vulnerability here, lads, the critics’ll eat it up.” He pauses to scrawl  _ build on vulnerability _ next to the songs. 

“ Now I’d say we could put  [ _ Cringe _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KaJqLCMUt7s) in as a sort of fun rock track after the sad-fest, and  [ _ Livewire _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42iR3O4guQA) , which is sad but has got that sort of nostalgic element that’s there in  _ Changes _ . And then, building on the nostalgia, we put  [ _ What Makes You Beautiful  _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJO3ROT-A4E) _ (Remastered),  _ and then  [ _ Where Were You In The Morning _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRic28k8sVU) to counteract that- it’s got a sad story, but it’s rather playful. Don’t want to make too sad an album, you know.”

He glances up. They’re all watching him, Harry’s eyes fixed on his mouth. Satisfied he’s got their eyes on him, he bends down to the paper again, pen wrinkling its crisp surface. “Now, we can put in the more devotion-type songs. Love songs. [_Chew On My Heart_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3J7ZKdCx-g) , then [_Lego House_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4BLVznuWnU). We wrap up nicely with [_Afterglow_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NGQfFCFUn4) , which has got- again - nostalgia but also has a nice love story.”

More silence. Louis sets down his pen, exasperated. “Well, don’t all speak at once, lads.”

Niall blinks, opening his mouth, but Liam gets there first. “That’s  _ brilliant _ , Lou. When’d you get so good at-”

“What,” Louis says wryly, tapping the pen on the surface of the table, “Marketing?”

“I was going to say the technical aspect of music,” Liam disagrees, “But I s’pose, yeah.”

Louis shrugs, playing with the pen and fixing his eyes on the carpet. “So? What do we think?”

“You’re a genius.” Harry says earnestly, leaning forward and cupping his face briefly. Louis blinks. “You’re not the stupidest lad I’ve ever met either, Harold.”

“Wow,” Harry says, all fake enthusiasm, “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Are you forgetting when I told you that you looked right fit in Gucci this morning?”

Harry smiles slightly, glancing down and biting his lip. Louis watches him, brows arching teasingly. 

Niall makes an abrupt, amused, sound. “Lads.”

Louis coughs and sprawls in the chair, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. It’s a nice ceiling, teakwood and shining rafters fitting together in a domed, gleaming pavé. He wonders if Harry got it specially done when he was fitting the room for a home studio. Probably.

“Don’t we have some- er - PR to do?” Liam says, which isn’t exactly the smoothest transition in existence. 

“We do,” Louis says, slowly. “Harry, aren’t we supposed to take some black and white photo of you, like  [ the Taylor post ](https://www.instagram.com/p/CH5xCv_DAbL/?hl=en) ?”

“I got one of my photographer friends to do it before I got here,” Harry says brightly. He slides his phone out of his pocket, fiddling with it. “It’s here somewhere.”

“Of course you have a photographer friend.” Louis says, closing his eyes in disgust. 

“He’s really nice!” Harry protests, tucking a curl behind his ear and extending the phone towards him. “Here.”

Louis takes the phone, peering at the screen. The  [ photo ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+black+and+white&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01vp9RckTFl-ihNLxvcJTnu6QwbXQ:1611434891765&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiS9rTi9rLuAhW1KH0KHegYAQ8Q_AUoAXoECBoQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=aOFlihRJrPy03M) in question is indeed black and white, Harry rendered in crisp lines and indulgent tailoring, with the luxurious spill of a pussycat bow and a headscarf tying his curls back. 

“Harry Styles, you sexy cunt.” Louis says, and passes the phone to Liam, trying to ignore the fact that he’d just called Harry sexy.

Harry is under no such illusions. “Glad you think so, sweetheart.”

Louis covers his face with his hands, squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes.

“Are we supposed to- do the social media part ourselves?” Liam says after a moment, sounding befuddled. “Like, don’t our publicists have to okay it first?”

“We are free men,” Louis informs him, letting his hands fall away. “This is a free country. ‘ An' it harm none, do what ye will’ .” 

“Did you just… quote the Wiccan Rede?” Harry says, looking incredulously amused.

“I am a cultured man.” Louis says, haughtily. He sniffs. “And also, the fact that you recognized it says something about you, doesn’t it.”

Harry raises his brows. “I live in L.A.” He deadpans. “If I  _ didn’t _ recognize Wicca-”

“That’s so offensive.” Louis says, throwing a pen at Harry. Predictably, Harry catches it in one hand, which is even more offensive.

“So should we post it at the same time? Coordinate?” Liam inquires, scratching his chin.

“What,” Louis says, “Like when you and Niall would send coordinated group texts to the group chat in 2014? Because mate, that was so fucking annoying-”

“Hey,” Niall protests. “We only did it like, twice.”

Louis rolls his eyes. He directs his next answer to Liam. “Yeah, we should probably do it around the same time, but not exactly the same time. Keeps suspicions away. Don’t want people to think we’re all four cozied up together.”

“You’re good at- publicity,” Liam marvels. “Ever thought about doing it for a living?”

“As a matter of fact,” Louis begins, and Liam tosses an eraser at him, scowling. “No more sass.”

“I posted it.” Harry interrupts, wiggling his phone. Begrudgingly, Louis digs out his own phone from under a mountain of scrap paper, clicking it on. He clicks on to Instagram, searches ‘Harry Styles’ (which, admittedly, is already in his search history, he’s had moments of weakness) and clicks on the first post that pops up. 

Harry’s [ photo ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+black+and+white&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01vp9RckTFl-ihNLxvcJTnu6QwbXQ:1611434891765&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiS9rTi9rLuAhW1KH0KHegYAQ8Q_AUoAXoECBoQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=aOFlihRJrPy03M) is captioned with  _ not a lot going on at the moment _ , and Louis watches the Likes and comments pile up, frantic and already drawing comparisons with Taylor.  _ Is he going to release a new album HARRY ANSWER US!!!!  _ One fan writes. Ha.

“I’ll post mine in a half hour or so,” Louis yawns. 

Exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Louis posts it. It’s an unseen photo of the five of them during the making of Four, shot on a professional camera. It was originally meant for album promo, but management had scrapped it because of- well.

In it, he’s stood up on a chair, gesturing animatedly. Harry’s leaning against the leg of the chair, curls falling loose around his jaw, eyes wide and fixed on Louis, mouth slightly parted. Zayn’s sprawled on the floor opposite him, feet tangled with Harry’s, and Niall’s rolling on the floor, caught in an undignified cackle of laughter. Liam’s pinching his nose and laughing unwillingly. 

What he knows millions of fans will zoom in on is this: Harry’s fingers around his ankle to steady him, thumb and index circling the thin exposed skin. The adoration pouring out of his eyes, the way his lips part, the way Louis’ eyes are caught on his. He can already picture the larry tumblrs, soon to be populated by millions of screenshots surrounded by green and blue hearts. Ah, well. There are worse things, Louis thinks, a grudging smile edging his mouth.

He’s captioned it with “ _ can you believe _ …” and a scattering of xx’s. Likes and comments pour in, most of them drawing comparisons to Harry’s post and peppered with again, more blue and green hearts. 

“Right,” Louis says, tapping at the coffee table briefly. “Ni, Li… Liam, you’re supposed to write some generic  _ miss you lads xx _ post, and Niall, you’re supposed to post a picture of you playing golf and write something cryptic about not having proper golf playing partners.”

“Why do  _ I _ have the generic one?” Liam complains, already fumbling for his phone. Louis rolls his eyes. “If you wanted something interesting, you wouldn’t have grown out the Jesus hair.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Liam starts, only to be interrupted by Niall’s triumphant cry of “TRICHOPHILIA!”

“I’ve already bleached your hair, don’t think I can’t do something worse to it,” Louis threatens, glancing at Harry for want of an ally. Harry’s already staring at him, his mouth spread in a content moue. His mouth is so mobile, so pink, light drawn to the slow jutting arc of his lower lip. 

Harry’s always had a mouth that invites want, invites long moments of wanton contemplation. Nobody could completely have him, but there’s hardly a soul who wouldn’t try. 

Harry invites it as well, smiles the way he does- his eyes cut by the sweeping blade of his lashes, the seductive positioning of his mouth - and arranges his long body in the best angles, is always too quick to put his hand in the secret curve of someone else’s waist. He creates intimacy like he does songs, blooms it from nothing and waters it feverishly until he- doesn’t. People get addicted to him. 

He’s fucking heroin, isn’t he-  _ Harry-in _ , he would joke - gets people addicted to the feverish rush of his hands on your skin, fresh baked goods and  _ you’re doing me a favor, please, come over, I need company _ . 

It’s such an easy spell to fall under. No one wants to resist, not really, not  _ seriously _ . They walk willingly along his paths, trace their hands along the trellis roses and marvel at the quality of their scent, the moon torching the silvery blades of herbs, the generous sweeps of wildflowers. 

Such a landscape lends itself quite easily to obsession. God knows Louis’ spent hours- horrible hours, eaten alive by jealousy and heartbreak - demonized by the thought of him, the iliac grooves punctuated by the two ferns, the butterfly black and gorgeous on the taut plane of his stomach. 

Green eyes, at times pale and mercurial as the gemmed inside of a cucumber, at times dark and vivid as Snow White’s own woods. He’s so, so easy to fall in love with. 

This way of thinking makes it easy to turn Harry into something he isn’t, to turn him into something sinister and insidious, a siren of the deep. He’s not, because- and this is perhaps the worst part - he’s for the most part unaware. Harry’s never broken hearts with the same blithe, careless, whimsy that Niall, or even Louis have. He’s so earnest about the way he comports himself, cares deeply, he  _ does _ . 

Always in love in some respect, always infatuated in some way with the world around him. Yoga, meditating, the glory of silks and colour, casual sex- Harry’s always bewitched with something or another. Louis is fairly sure that he was Harry’s only serious relationship- which suits him, of course, because if Harry was serious about someone else, he’s not sure what he would do. 

In this way, he’s selfish. Unwilling to cause himself the pain that being with Harry would bring him, and yet not willing to let him completely go, either. 

“Lou? Louis-  _ Tommo _ ?” 

Louis blinks. He’s been staring at Harry for longer than is acceptable, withdrawn into himself and thinking in the abstract. Harry’s smirking, the smug bastard.

“I,” Louis says slowly, “Need some fucking  _ food _ . It’s what, twelve? How long have we been in here? Is there some sort of conspiracy to starve me to death in order to take advantage of my net worth? I’m warning you, I have a will, and nowhere in it do I list any of you. Well, except Liam, I left him a pair of hair-scissors, thought they might come in handy-”

“Stop talking shit,” Liam complains. He bites at his nail, presses something on his phone, and slides it into his pocket. “Posted.”

Louis glances at him, alarmed. “What,  _ the _ post?  _ Lee-yum _ , you idiot, we’re supposed to space it out more. Now-”

“I didn’t know that!” Liam protests, looking like a kicked puppy. “Well,” Louis says snappishly, “You-”

“Oi,” Niall interrupts, “Now use crying over spilled milk, innit? If he deletes it, it’ll look even more suspicious, eh? Now, Lou, I’m proper starved, reckon there’s something to that idea of yours. Nando’s?”

“God, yes.” Louis says, with feeling. On the opposite side of the room, Zayn stretches, phone dangling from his languid fingers. “I’ll call and order.” Zayn yawns, and Niall makes a noise of approval.

_ ruth-loves-larry: _

_ Okay unless you’ve been living under a goddamn rock you’ve seen the unreleased Four pic.  _ _ here,  _ _ for anyone who hasn’t seen it. Um, WHAT. the fingers around the ankles. The adoring stalker-frog stare. The eye contact. CALLING ALL LARRIES _

_#larry proof_ _#larry is literally real_ _#louder louis louder_

_ 5,445 notes _

They send the album to their team- which is mainly comprised of a combination of their solo teams - and get approval. Their pap outing is scheduled for two days from then, and they spend them as they’ve done for the greater part of the holiday- lazing around, absentmindedly squabbling and getting used to living in each other’s pockets again. 

Now, it’s a bright and breezy Saturday, and they’re having brunch. They’ve been driven to London for this, so as to build as much exposure as possible. Separate cars, tinted windows. An outside reservation, so the paps will be able to catch easy and bright shots.

Louis ducks out of the car door, absentmindedly thanking Rhonda, the driver. She winks at him and zooms away. He ducks his head and moves forward. 

The paps aren’t here yet. Louis walks closer, blinking sunlight out of his eyes. The cobblestones are slick and grey, the smell of rain and dirt and flowers rising from the cracks in thick, concentrated spirals. Flowers, crammed colourfully in various earthenware pots, line the cafe’s storefront, a cheerful yellow awning and curlicue wrought-iron seats. Earnest trendiness, relentless cheer. The headache behind his eyes- they’d spent the previous night drinking - abates slightly. 

He’s wearing  [ aviators and a grey sweater ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinson+aviator+sunglasses&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01RHP054onkZjj0ifzazprQEbD6rQ:1611539514349&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi94qzC_LXuAhWHhK0KHYW9CxQQ_AUoAXoECBIQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=TIpa0LGSQy7l5M) , the chill of the morning prickling with spring ease. Niall and Liam are there already, he sees, chatting casually at one of the outdoor tables. There’s a miniature horde of fans- only about four yet, but he knows that a single tweet can signal dozens more - whispering, prodding each other and snapping covert pics. They haven’t noticed him yet. Rude.

Louis makes an entrance as best he can, striding dramatically towards the table and ducking past the group of fans with a murmured apology. Shocked gasps.

“Oi! Lou!” Niall calls, waving excitedly. One girl’s video-taping. Louis saunters over to the table, sliding a chair out and dropping into it elegantly. He smiles, sliding his sunglasses over his head and raking his fringe up. 

“Been a while, ‘asn’t it.” He nods, and Liam chokes on a laugh. They woke up together this morning, all five of them sprawled in various positions in the living room. There wasn’t time for breakfast. That, combined with the hangover, made for a horrible morning.

“Harold, then?” Louis prods, leaning back in his chair. There’s a menu on the table, and he lifts it, peering at the brunch options. 

“Er, dunno, could be stuck in traffic. Lou, I ordered for you already.” Liam says, and Louis glances up, light slanting painfully into his eyes. He slides his sunglasses back down. “What’d you order, then?”

“Full English. Ordered the same for meself, and I think Niall’s got the same.”

“Full English  _ plus _ their Saturday Special.” Niall announces with relish, and Louis chuckles, leaning over to flick his nose. Niall squawks, offended. 

Conversation’s easy, Liam going on a grand and entirely fictitious account of how he’s spent the past month. It includes several emu, an ibex, and Bear. Louis is of the opinion that Liam needs to stop watching those fucking animal cartoons.

“You know the paps aren’t video-taping, right?” Louis interrupts, as Liam takes a breath. “Like, we don’t actually have to pretend we haven’t been in the bungalow for the past month, they can’t hear us, and besides, they’re not even ‘ere yet-”

“You’re ruining the  _ fun _ .” Niall pouts, and Louis relents, leaning back. “Sorry, sorry, but Liam, could you, um, branch out?”

“Onto what, plants? Fungi?” Niall interjects incredulously. “Look, mate, Liam’s not got the most creative literary sense- the lad named his son  _ Bear _ for fuck’s sake. Expecting him to have an actually interesting fake story-”

“Oi!” Liam speaks up, sounding offended. He takes a particularly violent swig of his water glass. “If I don’t have a creative literary sense, none of you do-”

“Speak for yourself, mate.” Louis says. He’s hardly the next J.K. Rowling, but who the hell is  _ Liam _ to speak for  _ Louis’ _ creative literary sense-

“I’d like to see you do better.” Liam scoffs, pouty, and Louis scoffs in return, flicking a bit of fringe out of his eyes. “Fine.”

“I’ll be the impartial judge.” Niall interjects, rubbing his hands together. 

“Alright,” Louis says superiorly, taking a sip of water and setting the glass down, his palm wet with condensation. He pauses, thinking.

“Lads, here’s the grand story of how  _ I _ spent my past month,” Louis starts, a hand tracing absentminded patterns in the water glass. Liam makes a disparaging noise, and Louis wrinkles his nose, throwing a balled up bit of napkin at him. 

“Silence.  _ Anyway, _ I was scheduled for a spot of tea at the Queen’s, right, and as I was walking into Buckingham Palace, I’m accosted by this funny man. Bit portly, bit flushed, and dressed in all white. Introduced himself as the palace chef. Now, I was understandably confused, but he was rather upset about something, so I said I’d help as best I could. And that’s when things started to go a bit pear-shaped.” Louis pauses for dramatic effect, sipping at his water.

Niall makes a  _ hmm _ -ing noise, nodding. Liam scowls, and gestures for him to continue.

“Now, as he starts to drag me to the kitchens, I realise we’ve got on our hands an ol’ case of mistaken identity. The man thought I was his new sous-chef, see, and I was about to correct him, when we arrived at the kitchen and I saw what was the trouble.

In Buckingham Palace, they do enjoy their squid. And of course, the squid’s got to be the highest quality- and the highest quality squid is very fresh, usually killed on-site. So in the kitchen, they had this glass case for the squid. Things usually went just fine, no problems. They’d decapitate the squid with a big old meat cleaver,” Louis describes, gesturing animatedly, “And black blood would go everywhere, but that was normal. Now, the trouble was that this particular squid was- well, I don’t like to point fingers, but I’d say it was the good Lord’s fault - a mutant squid, and it had ballooned to three times its size and exploded the glass tank.

Somehow, this squid was also able to breathe above-ground, and it was scuttling all over and generally making a nuisance of itself. So the palace chef turns to me, right, and tells me that it’s  _ my _ job to take care of the squid, as a sort of way to prove meself. And look, lads, I don’t know that much about squids, but I figured that any animal that’s smart enough to escape its cage shouldn’t be killed. I’m about to refuse, when the squid leaps at me and its tentacles-” Here, he uses a rolled up napkin to illustrate the proceedings- “Wrap around me and  _ squeeze _ . Trying to kill me, like. And now,  _ now _ I’ve got a  _ vendetta _ against this squid.

‘Twas a long and black battle- both literally and figuratively, see - but eventually, I triumphed, not because I was better at fighting, but because the chef had handed me a meat cleaver, and bam, the squid was gone. 

Now lads, I know what you’re thinking- that seems like it took only a day, it couldn't possibly be how I spent the  _ month _ . But the Battle of The Squid was only the first in many trials I faced in that harrowing and dark kitchen.” Louis pauses, looking into the distance impressively and closing his eyes in false remembrance.

Niall starts applauding, and Liam follows suit, begrudgingly. Louis raises his hand, modestly quieting their applause. 

“It’s a good story, but seems a bit unpatriotic.” Liam points out, brows raised. Louis scoffs, because it was a fantastic story and Liam’s clearly jealous. “What, because I exposed the demonic rituals of the Buckingham Palace kitchen? Are you telling me I should have just left it alone? Where is the bravery, lad? Where is the courage?  _ Unpatriotic _ \- I tell you what’s unpatriotic, Liam, a  _ infernal beet _ .”

“An infernal beet?” Liam echoes, skeptical. Louis leans forward, a fork clenched in his hand. “A beet from the  _ depths _ of  _ hellish _ , diabolical, soil. And that’s not even getting  _ started _ on the Satanic grilled salmon. The horrors of possessed seafood, I tell you.”

“Sounds like I got here at an excellent point in the conversation,” Harry says from behind him, and Louis stiffens, every inch of his body prickling with awareness.  _ You literally fell asleep next to him yesterday, stop acting like a schoolgirl _ .

“Harold,” Louis greets equitably, turning slowly and kicking out the chair next to him in blatant invitation. Harry smiles, mouth spreading happily. He looks sexy and well-rested, the bastard. He’d taken forever to get dressed, but he’s dressed well-  [ patterned cardigan dipping in a low V, pearl necklace and crisp brown pants ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles++casual+outfits+2020&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwi2s7-BkLbuAhWXgp4KHZCxCHwQ2-cCegQIABAA&oq=harry+styles++casual+outfits+2020&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQAzICCABQoQhYiQpguA1oAHAAeACAAXiIAdgBkgEDMS4xmAEAoAEBqgELZ3dzLXdpei1pbWfAAQE&sclient=img&ei=qzgOYPaxApeF-gSQ46LgBw&bih=871&biw=1577&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918#imgrc=6-au88bvDOOOGM) . His hair’s freshly shampooed, smelling of Aveda.

The feverish whispering of the fans behind him rises to a fever pitch. Louis winks at them. Harry sinks into the chair next to him, long limbs sprawling comfortably. He looks playful, at ease.

“Have you guys ordered yet?” Harry asks absently, perusing the menu. Louis realises he’s been staring at him for too long; he looks away abruptly, flushing. He does that a lot, he’s starting to realise- drifts off and just  _ looks _ at Harry, eyes resting comfortably on every colourful intricacy. It’s where his eyes land, automatically, and the thought frightens him more than he can say.

They brunch for about an hour, chatting easily and eating. At one point, the fans grow comfortable enough to approach them and ask for pictures, which they submit to gladly. Louis learns their names- one of the girls is called Rhonda, which strikes Louis as a funny coincidence. “My friend’s name is Rhonda, she dropped me off today, actually.” He tells her, and she flushes hotly, seemingly at a loss for words.

One of the fans- her name is Ruth, and the ends of her hair are dyed a bizarre lime green - is a devoted Larry Stylinson fan, which Louis gathers from the brief, pointed, questions she asks. 

“So, like, you guys are all still friends?” She asks at one point, eyes flitting obviously from Harry to Louis. 

Harry glances at him, mouth curving into a gentle curve of amusement. He slides a hand briefly along Louis’ chair, ringed fingers curling along the top. Ruth emits a muffled gasp, but Louis isn’t focusing on her, rude as it is- Harry’s fingers are brushing the rims of his shoulder-blades, and the contact sends a sleepy spark through him. He feels hot and loose, shivery and trembling.

It’s a strange sort of law to their interactions- they can curl up along each other and fall asleep next to each other, but the chemistry of skin-on-skin, littlest fingers brushing in a crowded place, never loses its potency. Louis imagines he’ll be flushing at the brush of Harry’s hands for years, decades, even, to come.

“We’re all friends, yeah.” Harry says, slow and rich with implication. Louis wrinkles his nose, kicking lightly at Harry’s ankle. Does Harry  _ really _ have to add fuel to the fire? Doing the livestream in his room was bad enough.

“That’s cool.” Ruth squeaks out, looking overwhelmed. Really, what did she  _ expect _ \- but Louis loses his train of thought as Harry slowly extracts his hand, fingers slowly grazing the thin, sensitive, skin of his neck. 

“It is, yeah.” Harry agrees, green eyes glassy and lit up with amusement. A corner of his mouth quirks up, eyes fixed filthily on Louis. “Pretty cool.”

Louis doesn’t remember much after that, too preoccupied with trying to keep his face neutral.

**WIRED: This Just In: One D Reunites! (For Brunch)**

**Teen Vogue: ARE ONE D BACK TOGETHER?**

**Variety: ‘They’re Back Together, I Just Know It’ Young Fan Says About The One Direction Brunch**

The pap pictures are golden. There are five of them that make the first page of many newspapers: in the first, Harry is striding to the table, fingers curling over the top of the chair in preparation to sit. Niall and Liam are smiling, looking pleased, and Louis is looking up at him, eyes upcast and crinkling. 

In the second picture, Louis is leaning forward, an elbow propped on the table, gesturing animatedly, body facing Harry. Harry’s leaning back, looking lazy and amused, a grin on his lips. Niall and Liam are laughing, Liam ducking his face down to hide it and Niall tipping his head up in glee.

In the third picture, Louis’ finally slid his sunglasses off, and he’s got one of the stems in his mouth, relaxed and coy. Harry’s not facing him, but his body is significantly closer than it was in the earlier pictures, his chair scooted closer and the broad length of his torso slanting sideways towards him. Niall’s half-standing, gesticulating frantically, and Liam’s kicking Niall’s legs.

In the fourth picture, Louis has his head turned, inexplicably facing right into the camera (it is, he notes, an  _ excellent _ angle for his  [ cheekbones ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinson+cheekbones&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk03boWyJ0pV_zRzgpGq4idAbvuB3gQ:1611592926360&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi7pZe_w7fuAhVCIDQIHXnwD_cQ_AUoAXoECBkQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=l8U2eAmwkhQ7GM) ), angled so Harry can whisper in his ear. It’s strange, like seeing a stranger in his body, because he doesn’t  _ remember _ it. It’s a bit like how watching Larry Stylinson compilations can be disquieting, because he doesn’t remember half of what the fans have highlighted. Harry’s got a stupid expression on his face, Louis notes satisfiedly- his mouth is half-open in a whisper, his eyes half-shut by his smile. One hand’s curling over the junction where Louis’ neck meets his shoulder. Niall’s covering his face, and Liam is leaning forward, a hand reaching out to jostle Harry’s shoulder. 

The fifth picture has them all laughing, faces tilted to the sky and golden in the morning light. Louis’ hands rest idly on the armrest, grey sweater superfluous in the warmth. One of his feet is tangled with Harry’s, and another is kicking out at Liam. They look like best mates, gathered together and intimate. Some a bit more than others.

“Fuck.” Louis says eloquently, kicking off his shoes and examining the article on his phone. They’re all returning to the bungalow, and the articles are up before they get within a mile of Cheshire. Paparazzi journalism works fast.

Harry glances at him, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong? The pictures are good.”

Louis rolls his shoulders, swinging his sunglasses off his nose and jamming them in his pocket. “The problem is that we look- we - we’re too -  _ you _ know what I mean. In the last one, we're playing footsie, for Christ’s sake.”

Harry pauses, full-stop, hands stilled in the upright motion of taking off his cardigan. His feet are bare in the corridor, his eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry? You wanted to come out, didn’t you? I thought- what’s the problem?”

Louis stares at him, speechless. “I- you think that because I want to come out, I can’t- God. You know how it works, H. Push-pull. Image contracts. I’ll probably be going out for a pap walk with El soon enough, because of these photos, and you  _ know _ -” He pauses, inhaling. Tears are prickling at his eyes, too-much and too-bright, and he hears Niall and Liam’s cars pulling up in the driveway. Soon, they’ll be knocking at the door. 

Harry’s face twists, brows and mouth bending. “I didn’t- fuck. Can’t you just say no?”

Louis inhales, looking down briefly and moving forward, out of the hallway. “I- no, not really. I would need a legal reason.”

Harry bites at his lip, eyes intensely green. “You  _ do _ have a legal reason. Reunion’s coming up, we need to drum up publicity, and you know that the fans traditionally don’t react well to reminders of Eleanor. It’s an image contract. They’ll care about profit. You’re not with Syco anymore, it’s not like they have a reason other than profit to keep you closeted.”

Louis closes his eyes, thinking. That’s true. He’s not sure if it’ll work, but it’s certainly something. “Fine. I- fine.”

Getting angry at Harry for touching him in public makes him feel sick, anyway. He’s done it before, back when he was still angry at Harry for not wanting to come out.  _ You don’t want to come out but you don’t want to stay in. Make up your fucking mind,  _ he’d snarled. Now, he knows better, knows to treat it with delicacy because it broke them once. 

They don’t talk about it the rest of the day, but that’s par for the course.

  
  
  


“We’re going to announce the reunion soon,” Louis says, quietly. He’s in the backyard, phone pressed to his ear, staring sightlessly out at the pale sky. Crows wheeling, the dark slice of wings against the white skies. “And I know you know that the fans have a complicated relationship with Eleanor. Part of our marketing is that we are, for the most part, available to our fans. You know that.”

One of the executives sighs over the phone, short and sharp. “Liam Payne has a girlfriend. The fans deal with it. There’s no reason we should make exceptions for you.”

Louis clenches his teeth, almost shaking with his anger. “Liam Payne’s  _ wife _ is fucking  _ real _ , and mine, if you didn’t know,  _ isn’t _ . It’s a different situation.” 

She sighs again, irritated. “The fans don’t know that. Look, it’s not that hard. One pap walk, hold hands and look lovey-dovey, and the rumors will be over. An hour. Easy-peasy.”

Calmly, Louis mutes himself, and then screams as loud as he can, startling the birds from their perches on the tree branches. He unmutes. “Oh, but unfortunately, I don’t particularly feel like making it easy for you.” Louis purrs, insolent.

A pause. Louis leans against the porch pillar, tapping his fingers absently on the wooden railing. The grass is green and riotous, furred with dew. The sky looks curiously flat, a paper pressed to airy thinness. There’s no substance to it, like he could claw a hand through the clouds and tear down the entire firmament. 

“One Instagram post.” The executive proposes, sounding exhausted.

Louis tilts his head, biting his lip and watching one of the birds wheel high, wings cutting through the air with brutal efficiency. “From her account, and she can’t tag me.”

“ _ Fine _ .” The executive snaps, hanging up quickly. Louis stares at the blank screen for a moment before tossing his phone lightly on the grass, tipping his head back, and screaming again, louder. It’s cathartic, his voice ripping through his throat.

He trots off the porch and throws himself at the grass, dew be damned. It’s soft and cool under him, wetting the thin cotton of his shirt easily.

Harry pops out of the door within a few seconds, looking worried. Louis lifts his head languidly, blinking. 

“Louis? Are you- what - oh.” Harry peers at him, confused. “Why are you on the grass?”

“I think the better question is,” Louis says, reflectively, “Why  _ aren’t _ you on the grass? Why are humans so removed from the natural world? And you call yourself a hippie.” He tips his head up, eyeing the pale evening clouds again. 

Harry scampers down the steps easily, sinking to his knees by Louis’ waist. Louis watches him blankly, the slope of light ringing down his curls, the angle of his body in gentle genuflection. He looks so at home in the grass, the lush tangles prickling up through his starfished hands. He’s so, so pretty.

“Think you’ve confused hippies with hipsters again.” Harry tells him. Louis sits up, a slow smile of triumph spreading across his mouth. “I  _ knew _ you’d admit it eventually.”

“Admit what- oh. No, I wasn’t  _ admitting _ that I’m a hipster-”

“You  _ just _ said it.”

“I-”

“You said ‘I’m a hipster’, I fucking  _ heard _ you. God, you crumbled easily.”

Harry fishmouths a few times, looking indignant. There isn’t really anything he can say when faced with Louis’ insurmountable logic, though, so he remains quiet, settling down next to Louis.

It’s cold, the chill night air breaking into the warm sanctum of air around them, dew seeping miserably along the indent of his spine, sliding cold and close. The light, obscured behind the clouds as it is, is dimming quickly and discreetly, night hunkering down with a satisfied groan.  _ These old bones… _

Nevertheless, Louis lays there, a hand sneaking out and curling around Harry’s. Harry inches upward, laying his head companionably on Louis’ sternum. Louis huffs a soft laugh, curling his hands in Harry’s curls and closing his eyes. 

“Sometimes,” Louis says softly, Harry’s head bobbing up and down with the motions of his ribs, “Sometimes, I wonder if it’s really worth it. The fans, the crowds, the music, any of it. When I can’t-” He stops short, flushing.  _ When I can’t have you _ .

Harry hums meditatively, curling his body closer. Louis runs a hand down his spine, soothing. 

“I think,” Harry says slowly, voice like melted syrup and familiarity, “That it’s a sort of trade-off. The two of us- the four of us, really - have so much more success than we’ve ever dreamed of. We’re so, so lucky. So privileged. We’ll never have to worry about- about not being able to pay for medicine, or not being able to pay college tuition for our children. People worldwide love us, and they haven’t even  _ met _ us. Sometimes, that much fame can be bad. It- it erodes you, sometimes, until when people think about you they don’t think  _ kind _ or  _ smart _ or  _ helpful _ , they just think  _ famous _ . And- and Eleanor, and Danielle, and Taylor, and Paige, and Olivia- it’s a lot, having to lie everyday.”

“I thought Olivia was real,” Louis interrupts, closing his eyes to the stars. 

“What?” Harry says reflexively, startled. “What- no. Camille was, in a way, but Olivia definitely wasn’t. I- you think I’d break up a  _ marriage _ ?”

Louis lifts his head slightly to frown down at Harry. “I thought she was divorced.”

Harry lifts his head, too, brows furrowed. “She- They’re divorced now, but they weren’t when I met her. And I wouldn’t have fucked a married woman, you know that. Besides, you know the Caroline Flack thing wasn’t real, I don’t  _ actually _ go for older women. Oliva Wilde. She was my  _ boss _ .  _ Fuck, _ no.”

“Hmm,” Louis says, thoughtfully. He waves a magnanimous hand. “Anyway, go on. You were talking about the burden of fame.”

“You little shit,” Harry snickers, and then he continues, laying his head back over Louis’ heart. “So yeah, it’s a lot. And sometimes it doesn’t work out for people, like-”

“Kurt Cobain?” Louis interjects helpfully, tangling his fingers in Harry’s curls again and tugging, lightly. Harry’s breath hitches, his voice strained when he says “Yeah, sure-”

“Amy Winehouse, maybe.” Louis interrupts again. “Ooh, Marilyn Monroe. Heath Ledger. Sid Vicious. Tupac-”

“ _ Yes _ , yes, I get it,” Harry sighs, poking him. “There are a lot of famous people who died early. Got it. Anyway, I think that as long as you have things that make you happy  _ outside  _ of the whole fame and money thing, that it’s worth it. If you have people you love that don’t have anything to do with being a world-famous pop star.”

Louis stays silent, still running his hands through Harry’s hair. “What about you?” He says eventually. “Do you count?”

“What?” 

“I love you,” Louis explains. “Do you count as something that doesn’t have anything to do with being a world-famous popstar? Because I think being a world-famous pop star yourself might exclude you from that position.”

Harry’s silent for a short while, and then his hands find Louis’ ribs, where he’s sensitive, and tickle him. Louis recoils, body spasming, trying to get away. His stomach aches with the force of his laughter.

After a long and decidedly manly struggle, Louis pins Harry to the grass with his hips, hands deftly tickling Harry’s armpits. “Say uncle.”

“Never!” Harry shouts, giggling. It’s ridiculous in his low voice, the timbre corrugated with bursts of high, burbling, laughter. 

“Never?” Louis says, raising a brow. One of his hands finds Harry’s neck, where he’s most ticklish, and Harry gasps, body going rigid with the force of his manic laughter. God, he’s so  _ odd _ .

“I think I count.” Harry whispers, after they’ve worn themselves out, sprawled listlessly on the grass. Louis pretends not to hear him, closing his eyes. 

The stars burn their pinprick imprints on his eyelids, glowing frighteningly in the black. Glory, glory.

  
  


“James!” Louis beams, tackling him for a hug. “My favorite popstar!” James squeals into his back, crushing him. They hug for another long moment, Louis patting his back. James appears to be crying real, actual, tears. Louis pats his back more vigorously.

“You can let me go now.” Louis says after a moment. James sniffs loudly, rubbing his wet nose over Louis’ neck, and Louis squeals, slapping him. “You ‘orrible man.”

“I’m a ‘orrible man, am I?” James mimics, doubling over when Louis punches him. “Ow, okay.”

The whole crew- filming, studio - as well as Niall, Liam, and Harry, are crowded behind him, varying expressions of impatience on their face. James wheels around, arms held aloft. “This is a glorious day,” He proclaims. “My long-lost son has returned to me!”

“Ta, James.” Louis winks, because that’s easier than saying  _ I’m no one’s son, now _ .

“Now,” He rubs his hands together, “What’s a lad gotta do to get a decent lunch around here?”

They’ve flown to LA for the show, on one of Niall’s private planes, which was certainly something. Harry kept insisting on watching Notting Hill ( _ I know what James is like, Lou, and I’m not going to let him best me- me! - with his knowledge of romantic comedies. I won’t stand for it _ ), Niall bouncing from seat to seat with exuberant energy and Liam trying fruitlessly to sleep. Louis, for his part, hadn’t exactly helped Niall calm down. (He doubts the leather seats will be the same again.)

“I’ve missed you,” James sighs, herding him away from the rest with an arm. “It’s great to have your accent around here, there are too many fucking Americans. Now, lunch is generally some boring old cucumber blah-blah ladies-who-lunch sandwiches- unless you’re me, in which case it’s Maccie’s.”

“Planning to share, James?” Louis asks, arching a brow. James beams. “Of course, Lou. I’ll have my assistant order- what was it you ordered last time?”

“A sausage McMuffin with egg, two hash browns, and a chocolate milkshake.” Louis rattles off promptly, and James makes a face. “Better tell Grace directly, I can’t possibly remember that.”

“Oi!” Niall yells from somewhere behind them. “What about us?”

James doesn’t turn, waving a dismissive arm. “The team’ll show you where the cafeteria is!”

“Can’t have them twigging to my McDonald’s orders,” James adds in a low voice, glancing covertly to his left. “Last time they found out I was sneaking extra carbs, Julia started hiding the crisps. Can’t live without me Lays, you know that.”

“I do, James.” Louis says sympathetically, patting his arm. He frowns. “Can’t you just go out to t’shop to get some more?”

“She  _ knows _ ,” James hisses, flushing. “I swear, she knows. She gets this look in her eye.” He shudders. “I can’t risk it.”

“Hmm,” Louis says, trying not to laugh. James pinches him in retaliation.

An hour later, they’re reading the scripts for the first skit, James Corden Kidnaps One Direction. “So,” James summarises, watching them anxiously, “Niall’s going to be golfing, Liam’s going to be eating ice cream with a fork, Harry’s going to be doing yoga at a monastery in Thailand, and Lou, we’ll be playing a game of footie.”

“Nice.” Louis nods, leaning forward to high-five James. Liam looks inordinately put-out at this. “Why does  _ he _ get to play football?”

“Because,” Louis says impatiently, “I, unlike you, am good at football.”

“But-”

“ _ And _ ,” Louis adds, “I, unlike you, wasn’t fookin’ stupid enough to say I had a ‘strange fear of spoons’ to a  _ camera _ . Christ, Payno. ’S like you’re a child sometimes, did you know?”

“Oh,  _ I’m _ the child?  _ Me? _ ” Liam says wildly, and Louis narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean-”

“Boys! Boys, break it up. We have to film.” James interrupts. He shoots each of them a glare. 

They film. It’s equal parts exhausting and entertaining- they’ve been in skits before, of course, and Harry’s acted in films, but it’s tiring. It’s dark when they finish, and when they’re too keyed-up to fall asleep, they pull an all-nighter with a film and a bowl of popcorn split between him, Niall, and James.

_ James Corden sits disconsolately on the edge of the couch, Reggie next to him. He heaves a massive sigh. _

_ JAMES: “Nothing’s right anymore, Reg.” _

_ REGGIE: “Uh.” _

_ JAMES [points at the news, where a woman ecstatically embracing her long-lost daughter is pictured]: “Look at it.” _

_ A pause. _

_ REGGIE: “Looks pretty good to me, for the news. What’s the problem?” _

_ Another sigh. _

_ JAMES: “I don’t know, there’s something- not right. I don’t know what it is.” _

_ REGGIE [confused]: “What could it be? Things are going pretty well, at least compared to 2020. Everything’s been moving in the right direction.” _

_ JAMES: “Come on, Reggie-” _

_ He breaks off, eyes widening.  _

_ JAMES: “Great Scott, Reggie, you’re a genius!” _

_ REGGIE [flattered]: “Well, thank you- you know, my mom always did say I was smart for a baby, I could talk before six months and everything-” _

_ JAMES [irritated]: “I don’t give a damn, Reg. I meant- I know what it is!” _

_ A pause. _

_ REGGIE [begrudging]: “Fine, what is it?” _

_ JAMES [triumphant]: “We, Reggie, are going to…” He trails off, eyes wide for dramatic effect. _

_ “Reunite One Direction!”  _

_ [audience cheers] _

_ Scene cuts to a temple monastery: WAT CHALONG, THAILAND. Cut to: Harry Styles, meditating, eyes closed. _

_ [audience cheers, laughs] _

_ Close up: Harry’s face, relaxed and calm. He inhales, and exhales slowly. _

_ James sneaks towards him, moving discreetly. Reggie is behind him. A pause. _

_ James and Reggie force a black bag over Harry, who immediately begins to struggle. James and Reggie pull Harry away by the arms. _

_ JAMES: “Go, go, go!” _

_ Scene fades to black. In the distance, Harry’s muffled cries are heard. _

_ Cut to: a golf course. BALLYBUNION, IRELAND. Niall Horan lines up his shot, relaxed in the cool breeze. _

_ [audience cheers] _

_ JAMES [whispered]: “We’re going to have to do this quickly. Quietly. In and out.”  _

_ REGGIE: “Aye-aye, cap’n.” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ Niall swings. Close up: the golf ball mid-air. Close up: Reggie’s grinning face, a black bag obscuring most of the camera. Niall’s yells echo in the distance. Fade to black. _

_ Scene cuts to a living room. BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND. Liam Payne sits on the counter, rummaging through the silverware drawer with an ice cream carton. Close up: a spoon. He shrieks and grabs a fork instead. _

_ [audience cheers, laughter] _

_ JAMES: “This should be easy enough.” _

_ REGGIE: “Are you sure? This guy looks pretty buff-” _

_ JAMES: “Payno wouldn’t hurt a fly, the big old teddy bear. Now, on my lead.” _

_ Liam, humming, makes his way to the dining table. He drops his fork. Camera pans to the fork, falling in slow-motion. He bends to grab it. _

_ JAMES: “Now, now, NOW!” _

_ James and Reggie run over and force the bag over Liam’s head while he’s on the ground. Liam struggles, legs kicking blindly, but eventually succumbs. The tub of ice cream falls from his loosening hands. [Ominous music.] _

_ Cut to: a damp soccer field. DONCASTER, ENGLAND. Louis Tomlinson, clad in a soccer jersey, bounces a ball on his foot. _

_ [audience cheers] _

_ James jogs up. He’s shed his black kidnapper clothing, and, like Louis, is wearing a soccer jersey. _

_ JAMES: “Hey, Lou!” _

_ LOUIS: “Find the place alright, James?” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ JAMES [out of breath, nodding]: “Oh yeah, yeah, it was a breeze. Got lost about five times in the backroads, but yeah, no big deal.” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ LOUIS: “Shall we play a game, then?” _

_ JAMES: “That’s what we’re here for, innit?” _

_ They play a quick game of footie, Louis winning easily. They both pant, wiping sweat off of their foreheads. _

_ JAMES: “You wouldn’t mind doing me a favor, would ya?” _

_ LOUIS: “What is it?” _

_ JAMES: “Well, if you could just come with me, I could explain it.” _

_ LOUIS [shrugging]: “Why not?” _

_ At this moment, Reggie jogs up, out of breath and holding a black bag.  _

_ REGGIE: “James! Um, what are you doing? Weren’t we going to-” _

_ James gestures for him to be quiet, drawing his hand sharply over his throat. _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ James walks past Reggie. Confused, Reggie approaches Louis with the bag, and Louis gives him a wide berth, brows raised.  _

_ LOUIS: “Might want to put that away, mate. Don’t want people getting the wrong impression.” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ JAMES [over his shoulder]: “Yeah, Reggie. People might think you want to kidnap them or something.” _

_ [more audience laughter] _

_ Cut to: a dark room. Harry, Niall, Liam, and Louis are tied to each other, black bags over all of their heads but Louis’. Louis yawns. _

_ James and Reggie whip the black bags off of them. Harry, Niall, and Liam blink, confused. _

_ NIALL: “Harry? Liam? Lou? Why are you- what the hell is going on?” _

_ Suddenly, James appears out of the black.  _

_ JAMES: “I’ll tell you what’s going on.” He circles them ominously. “Well, well, well. One Direction, together at last. Bet you’ve got a few things to say to one another, huh?” _

_ A pause.  _

_ LIAM: “I mean, sure?” He clears his throat. “Good morning, Lou. Morning, Niall. Good to see you, Harry.” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ HARRY [polite]: “It’s lovely to see you too, Liam.” _

_ LOUIS: “Oi, what about the rest of us?” _

_ HARRY [correcting himself]: “It’s lovely to see all of you.” _

_ James throws a bucket of water over all of them, soaking them instantly. They all cry out. _

_ JAMES: “Silence!” _

_ LOUIS: “OI! James!” _

_ HARRY [dismayed]: “These trousers are Gucci…” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ James circles them again, fingering his stubble. _

_ JAMES: “I didn’t mean  _ greetings _. You all hate each other, from the very core of your beings! Don’t you have… words you’d like to exchange?” _

_ NIALL: “Nah, not really. We had brunch last week.” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ LOUIS: “It was literally front page on about a million magazines, James. I thought you knew about it.” _

_ James tosses another bucket of water. _

_ JAMES: “SILENCE!” _

_ HARRY: “THESE CLOTHES ARE DESIGNER!” _

_ JAMES [chastened]: “Sorry, sorry, got a bit carried away.” He pauses. “Wait, are you seriously telling me that there’s no beef between any of you?” _

_ The boys look at each other, and then at James. _

_ LOUIS: “Not really, no. We’re best mates.” _

_ JAMES [visibly distressed]: “But I- no, I read about it in the Hollywood Reporter! It said that Louis and Liam are the only ones who stayed friends within the band!” _

_ HARRY: “The Hollywood Reporter, really?” _

_ James ducks his head down, looking embarrassed.  _

_ JAMES: “Well, I thought that- never mind. Anyway, that makes my job easier.” He pauses, setting his hand on his heart. Louis nudges Liam, muttering something into his ear, and Liam cracks up. _

_ JAMES: “For over a decade, loyal fans have pined away. Will they never return, they asked themselves. They followed your solo careers, but nothing filled the hole inside them-” _

_ Liam and Louis snicker, Niall breaking into giggles. James pauses, irritated.  _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ JAMES: “What’s so funny about holes- oh, come on!” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ HARRY [comfortingly]: “I’m listening, James.” _

_ JAMES: “Well, thank you, Harold. Now, where was I.” _

_ LOUIS: “You were talking about-” _

_ JAMES: “Holes, yes I remember. Ahem, anyway. Your 10th anniversary passed, and not one of you spoke of a reunion. They began to fall into despair. Legions of fans around the world, lad! Inconsolable! There’s only one way to fix this.” _

_ NIALL [tentative]: “To… reunite?” _

_ JAMES: “Exactly, Niall! Picture it: One Direction, together again. World peace! A symbol of unity!” _

_ LOUIS: “Wait, didn’t you do this for the Jonas Brothers-” _

_ James tosses another bucket of water. _

_ JAMES: “SILENCE! Anyway, a symbol of unity! A symbol of peace and brotherhood in these dim times!” He pauses, breathing in deeply and dabbing away a tear. “What do you say, lads?” _

_ LOUIS: “You know, I would’ve considered it, but then you splashed water on me-” _

_ [audience laughter] _

_ HARRY: “No, come on Lou, think of the fans.” _

_ LOUIS: “Alright, fine.” _

_ JAMES: “Fine? Does that mean you’re in?” _

_ LOUIS: “Yep.” _

_ JAMES: “Niall? Liam? Harry?” _

_ LIAM: “I’m in, if you lads are.” _

_ NIALL: “Same here, mate.” _

_ They all look expectantly at Harry. _

_ HARRY: “Seems like we’ve kept them waiting long enough, haven’t we?” _

_ [audience cheers] _

_ JAMES: “Repeat after me: WE WILL REUNITE!” _

_ ALL: “We will REUNITE!” _

_ JAMES: “Right… NOW!” _

_ Curtains lift. _

Louis blinks in the sudden outpouring of light. The studio audience is cheering, most of them on their feet, clearly expecting them to do something.

This is all well and good, but they’re still bound together. “Um,” Louis calls. “Not to be rude, but we’re still fookin’ tied to the chair.”

James skips back and undoes the rope. Wincing, Louis stands, rubbing his back. Harry’s stretching, smiling winningly at the audience and brushing water droplets off of his trousers which are, indeed, Gucci. (The droplets of water- epicene, ephemeral, glowing - skid away with the absent brush of his palm.)

Liam slings an arm around Louis, muttering “Lilo is triumphant”. Louis pinches Liam in the ribs and ducks out from under his arm, glomming onto Niall’s side. Niall cackles and ruffles his hair, murmuring “smile for the cameras”. Louis makes a face and smiles into Camera A, making sure to add a wink. Harry isn’t the only one who can be charming, thank you very much.

Harry’s to his right, Liam to his left and Niall pressed against the side. His boys. For so long, he’s been alone on a thousand stages- and he loves his solo career, he really does, but there’s something special, something delightful and inexplicable that springs to life when the four of them are together. He’d call it magic if he wasn’t such a skeptic. 

“I can’t believe,” Niall murmurs in his ear, sounding choked up, and Louis coughs out a wet laugh, smiling so hard his cheeks ache. “I know,” He murmurs. “God, I know.”

**WIRED: One D Reunites, To The Joy Of Fans Worldwide**

**Teen Vogue: No, This Time We’re Not Just Guessing! One Direction IS Back Together!**

**J-14: OMG, ONE D!**

**Variety: One Direction’s Miraculous Resurrection: What We Can Expect**

“I liked the resurrection one,” Louis says around a bagel, pausing to swallow. The cream cheese melts on his tongue, and he closes his eyes, shivering in pleasure. “Quite clever. Didn’t like the actual article, but it’s better than the generic ‘One Direction’s Back Together’ headlines.”

They’re in the crew cafeteria getting breakfast, morning light shafting brilliantly through the windows. Harry’s across the room, fiddling with the fresh fruit, and the line of his back is clean, unbroken and broad. His hair is licorice-dark, curling around his ears, and he looks so much like his sixteen-year old self that Louis has to stare a little, watching the hesitant patterns of movement that ensorcel his limbs, the absentminded drumming of his palms on the counter, the fistful of rings strung on his fingers.

“What was wrong with the article?” Niall asks, crunching neatly on a slice of bacon. Louis makes a face, stabbing at the smoked salmon. “Basically implied that us reuniting was a marketing ploy, based on the Jonas Brothers and the Backstreet Boys.”

Niall laughs. “None of our fans will believe that, you know. Bet the writer’ll be getting death threats for a few weeks, too.”

Louis sets down his bagel, plucking his fork to prod Niall’s face. “Repeat after me, Ni: We- Do - Not - Endorse - Death - Threats.”

“Getting moral this early in the morning, Lou?” Harry says, sliding into the seat next to him. Louis flicks him absentmindedly, returning to his bagel. 

In a way, it  _ is _ resurrection, the rekindling of something that he’d half-thought was lost forever. The jalousie windows basting them with thin yellow light, skimming over Harry’s curls and sending Niall’s hair into flaring paleness, painting them in forgiving lines. They’ve been gentle with each other all morning, trying not to shatter the delicate fractals of whatever spell’s been cast, because  _ this _ , they have to preserve. 

“Cantaloupes are rather good.” Harry says randomly, and Louis turns, blinking reverie out of his eyes. “Are you mad? Cantaloupes are disgusting.”

Harry sets his skewer down, eyes narrowed. “Cantaloupes,” He says clearly, “Are the best melon in existence.”

Louis laughs. “Sorry, aren’t  _ you _ the one who wrote and released a song called  _ Watermelon Sugar _ ?”

Harry coughs. “That wasn’t- because I liked watermelon.”

Louis cocks a brow, daring. “Oh? What was it about, then?”

Harry licks his lips, slowly. 

Louis bats his eyelashes. “No, dear Harold, I’m afraid I can’t quite grasp the hidden meaning. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

Harry laughs briefly, neatly skewering a watermelon chunk and biting into it. “It was a metaphor for the taste of- something else.”

Louis raises another brow in astonishment. “What kind of cocks ‘ave you been sucking, Harry? Last time I checked, spunk didn’t taste like watermelon-”

“TOO MUCH INFORMATION.” James shrieks from behind them, and Louis collapses in laughter, head thunking on the table. Harry’s chuckling softly, hands covering his face.

Louis turns, propping an elbow on the table and fixing James with his most innocent stare. “Why, James, whatever’s wrong? I was simply asking ‘Arry an honest question.”

He turns to Harry, blinking slowly. Harry coughs. “Erm, it was metaphorical. I don’t think anyone tastes like watermelon.”

Louis leans in, a hand curling around his bicep sympathetically. “Well, unless it’s changed in the past seven years, I can confirm that you definitely don’t.”

“STILL TOO MUCH INFORMATION.” James booms. Louis laughs, watching the gradual dilation of Harry’s pupils, the near-eclipse of black and bottle-green. 

He leans back, licking his lips; a neat riposte. 

Harry’s lips quirk. Acknowledgement.

“What’s on the agenda today, James?” Louis asks, without taking his eyes off of Harry. James makes a garbled noise, then clears his throat. “Well, we’re doing another Carpool Karaoke, and we’re going to re-enact [ the moment you were first put together as a band ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NbwKv3ZfHe0) .”

Louis blinks. Carpool Karaoke he expected, but- well. He remembers Simon telling them they were put together as a band, remembers turning and leaping into Harry’s arms gleefully, legs wound around a stranger’s waist and face buried in his neck. 

Louis swallows, biting into his bagel and setting it down. He turns, eyes narrowed on James. “Are you going to be playing Simon, then?”

James beams, plucking at the fabric of his shirt, which is- a cotton tee and a pair of mom jeans, Simon’s go-to outfit.

Louis face-plants on the table, groaning. “I’m going to have nightmares about that outfit, I hope you know that.”

“None of that, Lou!” James says cheerily, clapping his hands together. “We’re going to start soon!”

They do end up filming it, against a green-screen that James assures them will be replaced with X Factor blue. 

“We’ve decided to put you through, together.” James says, through a print-out of Simon Cowell’s face. Louis tries to recall the excitement of that day, 18 years old and terrifyingly hopeful, everything to be gained and nothing lost. Niall’s jumping up and down in a comic pantomime of excitement to his right, Liam fist-pumping to his left. 

Harry’s tripping over his feet next to Niall, and Louis turns, catching his eye. Harry’s eyes gleam at him,  _ are you ready _ and Louis nods imperceptibly, turning and angling his body. 

Harry moves forward, arms slightly braced, and  [ Louis throws himself into Harry’s arms wildly ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NbwKv3ZfHe0) . 

Harry laughs, wheeling around, and Louis tightens his body around Harry, arms easily winding around Harry’s neck, thighs finding the inward dip of Harry’s waist. 

Harry’s hands slide under his arse, hitching him up, and later, he won’t remember what Harry says, only that it made him laugh, tipping his head on Harry’s forehead. Harry smiles back at him, eyes crinkled.

It’s what happens next that Louis won’t be able to explain. The world slows around them, constellated fragments of orbit, indistinct and planular. 

Nothing  _ matters _ , actions gone weightless, and it doesn’t feel like sacrilege to let Harry tip his face up and nuzzle their noses together in a brief, glancing, Eskimo kiss.

Just a moment, and then the flow of the world snaps back into place, audible and jarring. “Cut!” James calls, and then the camera’s being switched off, people hustling on set and doing things. Louis blinks, and then Harry’s setting him down- carefully, reverently, like he’s handling precious gem-dripping jewelry. “This arse is precious,” Louis informs Harry, sliding off of his hips. “If you damaged it, I’ll be very angry.”

Harry chokes on a laugh, bending to whisper “If I haven’t damaged your arse already, I think you’ll be fine.”

Louis blinks, catching the innuendo deftly. 

Appalled, he withdraws and slaps Harry lightly against his face. Harry recoils theatrically. 

“Harold, I am a gentleman of  _ honor _ . I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

_ That _ sends Harry laughing into his hands, and Louis scowls, stomping on his foot  _ hard _ and grinding down. Harry doesn’t flinch, and Louis stomps away with a scoff.

“Just friends, eh?” Liam mutters against his ear, slinging a friendly arm around his neck, and Louis elbows him where he imagines his kidney is. “Shut the hell up, Jesus-hair.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re sure you don’t mind?” James says into his phone. “Thanks a million, mate.”

That’s Niall’s cue, and he ducks easily into the passenger seat. “Sup, James.” 

_ That’s _ Louis’ cue. He opens the door, sliding left to the window seat. “Alright, James.”

“Oh, I really only need one-” James starts, and then Harry slides in after him, his hair slightly damp. He’s wearing a maroon-striped button-up and a pair of crisp cigarette pants, as close to  [ the original outfit ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+one+d+carpool+karaoke&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk02Yz4jIdJsTH9UIu6ObJx40s_tqgg:1611695427265&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjo9bWrwbruAhX5MlkFHSA5AsAQ_AUoAnoECAsQBA&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=4Mqv7e2PAx6gtM) as he can. “Hello, James.”

“Hello, Harry.” James says back automatically, and then Liam hops in, too, wedging into Harry’s side. “Hi there, James.”

“Oh- hey, Liam. Look, what are you guys doing here? I thought it was only Niall.”

“Four for the price of one,” Louis says, cheerfully. Harry coughs on a muffled laugh. Louis elbows him. 

“Well,” James sighs, “Since we’re all here… we could listen to some music?”

Louis grins, relaxing against the backseat. “Sounds good to me, James.”

A moment later,  _ What Makes You Beautiful _ is blaring from the car speakers, and they’re all trying and failing to stop laughing. 

_ Drag Me Down _ comes over the radio, and they each exchange grins before harmonizing. James actually glances back in surprise. “We’re more prepared than we were last time, James.” Louis tells him. They’d been practicing their band harmonies as a group during their month-long bungalow holiday, Zayn deigning to lend his voice to the mingled notes. Their first tries had been rusty at best, but they’d gotten better.

“ _ Nobody can drag me down _ .” Harry wails, voice soaring, and Louis can hardly keep himself from touching him, the corded muscles of his arms and the parameters of his shoulders in the thin, striped, cotton. It’s so fucking strange, it always has been- the harsh and blameless dichotomy between their ease of intimacy and the restrictions cameras place on them. 

This isn’t exactly a live broadcast- there’ll be editing - but still, he has to practice. He’s grown too used to being able to touch Harry whenever he wants.

“Alright, alright,” James bounces in his seat, snapping his fingers and occasionally lending his voice to falsetto descants. “Al _ right _ . Now, that was  _ good _ , lads. Bit dated, though.”

Louis snorts, sprawling slightly. “Are you calling us  _ dated _ , James?”

James winks in the rearview window. “No, no, but I thought we might like to listen to something a bit more… modern.”

They catch on a few seconds before James is pressing play, and the beginning notes of  _ Watermelon Sugar _ blare out. Harry folds in on himself, covering his face.

They all pretty much know the words, and they find their stances within the song quickly enough, Harry taking the chorus and high notes, Liam harmonizing and digressing into fanciful trills, Louis carrying most of the melody and Niall backing him up. 

“Whoo!” James whoops, harmonizing with Liam. “ _ Watermelon sugar high, _ ” Louis sings, tilting his face towards Harry and batting his eyelashes. Harry flushes almost imperceptibly, pressing a hand to his face and laughing. 

This is revenge for the time Harry did the livestream in lingerie, Louis thinks. They’ve always been far too good about winding each other up in public. He remembers  [ that one interview ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpDFLDmw2-M) where he’d dared Harry to wear a plug, and he’d reached down and prodded it mid-interview. (They’d been frantic for each other afterwards, fucking in the bathroom and not bothering with prep because Harry’d been loose from the plug already.)

“ _ Breathe me in _ ,” Harry sings, a hand curling around Louis’ wrist out of sight of the camera, “ _ Breathe me out. Don’t know if I could ever go without _ .”

“ _ Watermelon sugar high! _ ” James wails, a brilliant soprano, and Liam joins him, their voices going trilling and thin in the higher registers. “ _ High, high, high _ ,” Liam descants, and Harry finishes with a final “ _ Watermelon sugar… high _ .”

“Lads! That was amazing!” James enthuses, smacking his hands on the steering wheel. “Alright, now- let’s see.”

_ Slow Hands _ comes up next, and Louis laughs at Niall’s look of horror. “ _ We should take this back to my-y place _ ,” Louis sings, eyes fixed on Harry’s, “ _ That’s what he said right to my-y face _ .”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly, registering his intentional use of a male pronoun. No one’ll be able to hear it over the other four voices, but Harry does. “ _ I’ve been thinking ‘bout it all day, and I hope you feel the same way _ ,” Harry sings back to him, grinning now. They’re not facing each other directly, of course they’re not, but their bodies are oriented towards each other ever-so-slightly.

“ _ Cause I want you bad, _ ” Louis sings, a grin edging up the corner of his mouth, canines nipping at his lower lip. “ _ Yeah, I want you, baby _ .” 

“ _ Slo-ow hands _ ,” Liam wails, neck tilting. Harry takes “ _ No chance, that I’m leaving here without you on me, _ ” and the two of them duet on “ _ I know, yeah I already know that there ain’t no stopping _ .”

“ _ Your plans, _ ” Louis sings, “ _ And those slow hands _ .”

Harry faces him more fully, eyes darkening. His pupils are wide, drowning in a thin rim of green. Desire. Checkmate. “ _ Fingertips putting on a show _ ,” He sings, intentionally husky. Louis tips his head on the window and sings “ _ Wanna be with you all alone. _ ” There’s palpable suggestion in his voice when he sings, soft and pleading and everything he knows Harry likes, “ _ Take me home, take me home _ .”

Harry’s pupils dilate further, eyes rimmed with the distinct points of his eyelashes, like the sharp tips of a star. His lips part, the glassy dark inner rim of his mouth shining invitingly.

“ _ Your plans, and those slow hands.  _ Woo!” Niall whoops, head bopping to the music, and the spell breaks over them like a cresting wave, washing away the fugue of senseless want. This is- madness, they can’t look at each other like that on camera, Christ.

Louis is next, and for his song they do  _ Always You _ , which- well. It’s difficult to sing of eternal devotion when the subject of said eternal devotion is to his right, the heat of him searing warmth along Louis’ torso. 

“ _ I’m wasting my time when it was always you _ ,” Louis sings, head resting along the window, gazing sightlessly into the tumults of traffic. 

Another car, another bored teenager in the backseat, a million petty dramas that have nothing to do with him, things that bloom and die their little deaths entirely separate from his sphere of existence. Oh, God.

“ _ Chasing the high but it was always you _ ,” Louis sings, more softly, drumming restless fingers on the seat, “ _ Always you _ .” Harry’s singing too, and it’s shocking, almost violating, to have Harry, of all people sing  _ Always You, _ of all songs. 

It’s a bit like how he imagines Harry might feel if Louis sang  _ Sweet Creature _ : like the inner barriers of his private self had come crashing down, as if the false sense of autonomy he’d fostered was revealed in its untruth and torn away. The screen ripped apart, the line between subject and creator, muse and artist, blurred irrevocably. 

He doesn’t imagine he’ll ever be able to sing it without thinking of right now, this moment, Harry singing  _ I went to so many places, looking for you in their faces _ .

They finish on a high note, Liam once again trilling fancifully. Their next song is  _ Strip That Down _ , which Louis is thankful of, if only because it provides endless opportunity for fun and teasing. “ _ Saucy _ , eh?” Louis grins, wiggling his brows. He sings  _ “ _ _ You know, I used to be in 1D _ ,” especially loudly, kicking Liam in the thigh. 

“ _ But c’mon, strip that down for me, baby _ ,” Louis wails, arching against the seat and grinding. Liam puts his head in his hands and groans, loudly. Louis whoops: “ _ Liam! _ Feeling raunchy, are you?”

“Please stop!” Liam shouts over the music, and Louis shoots a sharp little grin over his shoulder, moaning obnoxiously. “Is it getting hot in here, or is that just me?”

“Might be you,” Harry murmurs into his ear, lower lip grazing the shell of his ear briefly. Louis inhales a laugh.  _ Thanks, darling _ is what he should say to that, but he can’t. Camera. World watching. Fuck.

“ _ You know, that since the day I met you, Yeah, you swept me off my feet _ ,” Louis sings as an apology, eyes locking onto Harry’s with intent. Harry gives him a half-smile, the right side of his mouth hitching up. 

“ _ Strip that down for me _ ,” Harry wails next, nudging Louis companionably, and Louis hides his smile in the sleeve of his sweater.

_ ruth-loves-larry _ : 

_ So, an anon asked me if I caught the Carpool Karaoke and um, YEAH I caught the Carpool Karaoke omfg. We haven’t got that much larry content since like, forever. I CAN’T. Also, i was part of the group that was there @ the brunch AND I HAVE RECEIPTS PLUS PICS TO PROVE IT. _

_ Plenty of people are doing Carpool Karaoke/Kidnapping/Reenactment masterposts and vids (Late Late really gave us so much, James is the darkest larrie and don’t you ever forget it), so I thought I’d let you guys look at those and just share my receipt. _

_ Okay, so I was video-taping and the (blurry) footage of them talking/laughing/interacting with each other is  _ **_here_ ** _. !!! They’re very comfortable with each other, and at one point LOUIS EVEN TUCKS A CURL BEHIND HARRY’S EAR. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.  _

_ So, like, I was there, and I’m not an attention-seeking liar, ta (@ antis).  _

_ Obvi I had to ask larry questions, so I asked them if they were all friends (wasn’t video-taping that part bc it would be weird to talk to them and video-tape at the same time lol _ )  _ and THIS happened. _

_ So like I think Harry pretty much understood what I was trying to ask and he leaned back in his seat and looked at Louis for a REALLY LONG TIME. Louis had this ~LOOK~ in his eye and they were both just silent and the EYE CONTACT!!!! AND THEN HARRY PUTS HIS HAND ON THE TOP PART OF LOU’S CHAIR LIKE A SMOOTH CRIMINAL AND THE LOOK ON LOUIS’ FACE IT WAS LIKE PORN.  _

_ And then Harry goes “We’re all friends, yeah” with this super suggestive tone and Louis makes a face and kicks Harry’s ankle (I imagine his thought process was like ‘how dare you insinuate we’re just friends, you’re my husband for god’s sake’). And at this point I’m like freaking out and so all I have to say is “that’s cool” and Harry smirks and goes “it is yeah. pretty cool” and louis’ face does this weird twist-y thing like he’s trying to keep his face blank.  _

_ Was that not the biggest larry proof of the year or fucking what _

_#larry_ _#larry is real_ _#larry proof_ _#receipts_

_ 13,029 notes _

_ let-larry-live:  _

**Carpool Karaoke Masterpost**

_ First, please watch the Carpool Karaoke  _ _ here _ _. There’s a LOT of larry content, so keep your eyes peeled.  _

_ 1st moment: Harry laughs at something Louis said (“four for the price of one”) and Louis elbows him. Harry starts fonding. It’s a problem. Look at those EYES. _

_ 2nd moment: Harry singing Drag Me Down (his voice omg) and Louis looking at him like he’s an angel, a god, a king, the love of his life, his husband. US TOO LOUIS _

_ 3rd moment: They’re singing  _ [ _ Watermelon Sugar _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-x3uD5z1bQ) _ and Louis turns towards Harry and bats his eyelashes and sings “watermelon sugar high” and Harry blushes and starts giggling, which backs up my theory that “watermelon” is not, actually, a metaphor for cunnilingus but a metaphor for something very different, a la  _ [ _ Medicine _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWGq_hp0XSI) _. If you don’t get what I’m trying to say, think about this: watermelons have seeds. _

_ 4th moment:  _ [ _ Slow Hands _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBmNcLBaPUE) _. Literally the entire song is them singing to each other. When Louis sings“wanna be with you all alone” and “take me home” LOOK at Harry’s face. _

_ 5th moment: They sing  _ [ _ Always You _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSfVtcHpgTQ) _ which is so fucking perfect and Louis kind of leans agaisnt the window and closes his eyes (I’m assuming because if he looked at his husband the love and devotion in his eyes would have exploded the car) and here’s the part that gets me: Harry knows all the words. (Louis knew all the words to H’s song but a lot of antis r saying that it’s because Harry’s music gets so much more play time on the radio & most people know the lyrics to Watermelon Sugar anyway- try to explain away H knowing every word to ‘Always You’, I DARE YOU.) _

_ 6th moment: They sang Strip That Down, and Louis basically bounced up and started making fun of Liam. He goes “Is it getting hot in here or is it just me” and Harry leans over his shoulder and murmurs something we can’t hear into L’s ear…. Pretty sure we can guess what it was, eh? (“IT’S YOU YOU’RE THE HOTTEST EVER OMG I LOVE YOU MY ETERNAL HUSBAND”). _

_ 7th moment: Louis sang: “ _ _ You know, that since the day I met you, yeah, you swept me off my feet” directly to Harry and I want to fling myself into the sun. _

_ All the ex-larries/antis out there: open your goddamn eyes _

_#larry_ _#my post_ _#masterpost_ _#larry proof_ _#larry is literally real_

_ 11,202 notes _

_ let-larry-live _ _ : _

_ Y’all do you see how many more notes larry posts are getting these days? People OPENING THEIR EYES and seeing what’s right in front of them. Kinda makes me lowkey mad about those twarries who stopped believing just bc of a dry spell but NO MATTER THERE IS ROOM FOR FORGIVENESS IN THIS FANDOM. WELCOME TO LARRY. WE HAVE SNACKS. _

_#larry_ _#mypost_ _#and like_ _#i KNOW i can’t be mad_ _#because it’s ‘just a ship’ or whatever_ _#but it’s NOT ‘just a ship’ it represents the homophobia and closeting of the music industry_ _#and we as their fans need to be there for them_ _#and like show em our support_ _#because we do fucking support them._ _#real larries stick with me_ _#tag rant_

_ 2,229 notes _

  
  


_ larry-love:  _

_ Y’all a lot of people out there are making Carpool Karaoke masterposts so I thought I’d be ~quirky~ (yes that was in a louis voice) and do a  _ _ reenactment  _ _ Masterpost so here it is y’all  _

_ THEY FUCKING REENACTED WHEN LOUIS JUMPED INTO HARRY’S ARMS AND DID YOU SEE HOW EASILY HARRY CAUGHT HIM??? LIKE THEIR BODIES WERE USED TO EACH OTHER. AND HARRY’S HANDS ON LOUIS’ BUM I WANT TO DIE. AND THEN _

_ THEN _

_ THEN _

_ THE FUCKING ESKIMO KISS. THE NOSE-NUZZLE. THE ACCOMPANYING EYE-CRINKLES. HARRY NUZZLING LOUIS’ NOSE BC HE’S SO IN LOVE. WHATEVER YOU WANT TO CALL IT. _

_ I CAN’T EXIST ANYMORE. _

_#larry_ _#larry proof_ _#masterpost_ _#kinda_

_ 18,119 notes _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“Tumblr’s gone a bit mad.” Zayn laughs, and Louis frowns at the phone. “Look, you’ve said that already-”

“No, I mean it’s actually gone utterly mad. A bit like the Destiel disaster, but worse, if you can imagine that. The last Larry post I checked got almost twenty  _ thousand _ notes. Do you even- a few years ago, you were lucky if you got a couple thousand. People are  _ noticing.  _ There was a fucking article in TMZ about you two, fuck’s sake.”

Louis blinks. “Zayn,” He says, slowly, “What- first off, what the hell is a destiny disaster? And there’s no way there was an article in  _ TMZ _ about  _ Larry Stylinson _ , you know they stopped publishing those ever since SugarScape-”

“ _ Destiel _ . It’s a ship.” Zayn corrects, sounding exasperated. “And the  _ TMZ _ article was about your ‘rekindled friendship’ or whatever the fuck they decided to call it. Christ, we’re lucky they only used the word ‘bros’ about three times in the actual body copy.”

“Laddy lads,” Louis inputs helpfully, tipping his head back and crossing his thighs, a study in affected demurity. “Straight amigos. Heterosexual homies. Brotherly bosom companions.”

“I- brotherly bosom companions, the fuck - oh, _ shite _ on a cracker.” Zayn hisses.

“Now,  _ that’s _ one I ‘aven’t heard before-” Louis says, diverted.

“The  _ TMZ _ article got more traction. Some fucking-  _ Entertainment Weekly _ and  _ In Touch _ both picked it up.”

“What are you,” Louis says, raising his brows, “My publicist?”

Zayn sighs, short and aggravated. “No, but I am your best mate, who has access to the internet and knows how bad it got last time. You know I’m just looking out for you.”

Louis bites at his lip, drumming his fingers against the table. “Zayn. I know. I just- sorry. I’m-”

“I know,” Zayn interrupts. “I know. Jesus, Lou, like I don’t know how you are by now. And I have a Google Alerts set up for Larry Stylinson, I’m not spending my time combing the internet.”

“Dedicated, aren’t you.”

“We both know how hopeless you are at the Internet, Louis.” Zayn huffs. “Genuinely, you don’t even have a fake Twitter, let alone a Tumblr.”

“That’s me,” Louis says, a stray smile caught and curving his mouth. “Hopeless.”

  
  
  


“What do our schedules look like, then?” Louis yawns into Harry’s lap. Harry smooths an absentminded hand over his hair, a thumb curling around his nape. The suggestion of it- power, presence, a hand on the bare bend of his beck - makes him feel utterly exposed, passive and shivery. 

When he closes his eyes, colours bloom against his eyelids, pushing against the dark in fingerprint-strokes, aurora borealis sleek. Taking in breath is a trembling process, air shivering through his lungs, the sweet tremor of his windpipe. He doesn’t want to lift his head from Harry’s lap, not ever.

“Hmm?” Harry murmurs. Thumb. Stroke. One-two-three, over and over, grazing the shell of his ear.

“Schedule.” Louis breathes, fighting for control. Only he doesn’t  _ want _ control, he wants to remain in the breathy headspace, fluid and transformative. Here, everything seems simple and finite, taken care of. 

“We have to do a-  _ thing _ with James in a bit, in front of the studio audience. Spill Your Guts Or Fill Your Guts.”

Louis tries to say something snarky. It comes out as a weak grumbling sound. 

“It’s fun,” Harry assures him, perhaps mistaking his incoherence for doubt. “ [ I’ve done it before, with Kendall ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPx6M7eTYbc) . Might feel like drinking like, a gallon of mouthwash afterwards, but it’s fun.”

Louis sighs and rolls off of Harry’s lap, hitting the ground with an audible thump. The shock of it clears his mind, thankfully. 

“Are you alright, Lou?” Harry asks, leaning over him. His hands brace over Louis’ body, easily bypassing formalities and slipping around his waist. Harry’s always touched Louis like he owns him.

Louis stands, forcing a smile on his face. “I’m going to, erm. Loo.”

He makes his shaky way to the loo, locking the door behind him and plastering himself to the counter, peering critically at himself. A flush riding high on his cheekbones, sinuous and telling. The manic brightness in his eyes could be attributed to pre-show anticipation. The quiver in his hands; nerves. 

“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis tells his mirror-image, “You are a massive fuck-up.” His reflection blinks back at him, and Louis wrinkles his nose, watching it do the same. “Just get a drug problem or an illegitimate child or something, like a normal popstar.”

“Oh wait.” He says aloud, but doesn’t finish the joke. He splashes his face with a palmful of crisp water, raking a slippery hand through his hair.

They’re on in fifteen minutes, the lights blindingly bright. The eager gnash of the audience’s stares is familiar, rote and easy. The prickling tenseness alive in his body, utter awareness of everything that comes out of his mouth, is hardly anathema after all this time. He imagines addicts are the same, loving the queer morphine haze of their individual drugs. God,  _ he _ was the same, glitter in the crease of his eyelids and needles and willing bodies.

“Now,” James says, after the cheers have died down, “We’re going to play a little game called  [ Spill Your Guts Or Fill Your Guts ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_nGLw1ceV8) , heard of it?” The audience cheers again, and Louis slouches slightly, sliding down in his chair the louder their cheers get. He and Harry are at opposite ends of the long table, with Liam next to Harry, Niall left of Liam, and Louis left of Niall.

“Now, normally the way this game works is this: you each get a question, and you can either answer it  _ or _ eat any of these lovely options here-” James gestures to a wheel, upon which is emblazoned things like ‘bull penis’ and ‘cod sperm’. I’ve partaken in the human version of both of those things, Louis thinks to himself, and then has to stifle a laugh in his hand.

Harry glances at him, a smile quirking his lips like he knows what Louis was thinking. Louis makes a face at him and directs his attention back to James.

“How _ ever _ , in the name of brotherhood and reunions and all that, we’ve made some changes to the game.” James says gleefully. “Now, if  _ one _ of you doesn’t want to answer…  _ all _ of you have to eat!”

They all release obligatory groans as the audience cheers and laughs again.

“Wonderful,” Louis sighs. “You do realise, James, that with this one’s inability to answer ordinary questions, we’re going to be eating everything on tha’ wheel?” He says, gesturing to Harry. Harry pouts at him exaggeratedly. 

James laughs. “Well, then you’ll get a well-rounded taste of all of these lovely cuisines, eh? Now!” He rubs his hands together, looking like a rather portly version of the Godfather. “Why don’t we start with you, Harold?”

The audience cheers, and James spins the wheel. It lands on  _ beetle and marmalade toast _ , and Louis wrinkles his nose. Not exactly something he was hoping to someday eat, but God knows Harry can never answer direct questions. 

“Are. You. Ready?” James says, dead serious. Harry, looking like he’s trying not to laugh, nods, eyes wide and fixed on James. “Alright then, let’s see your first question, shall we?”

He examines the cards. “Harry Styles…”

“Yes?” Harry answers, innocent. 

James narrows a gaze on him. “Which did you enjoy more- being in the band, or singing solo?”

Harry scrunches his face, mulling over whether or not to answer. The audience screams. Louis settles back in his seat, knowing that Harry’s going to give them more than they asked for but not what they want to hear.

“Well,” Harry says finally, dragging his words out the way he does when he’s feeling playful, in the mood to make fun of himself, “I- hmm. I couldn’t really compare them, to be honest. The band gave me some of the best years of my life, I had so much fun. I met some of my favorite people through One Direction, and it helped me grow and really like, mature as a performer, you know? I couldn’t’ve made it solo without the band, definitely- I think we’d all say the same, right?” Harry glances at all of them, waiting for them to nod. 

“On the other hand, there’s something special about performing solo, because you can take all of the credit,” Harry says, laughing slightly. “Like, if the show was really good, it was because of you. On the other hand, if it was shit, you can’t blame your bandmates. So like- I love music, and performing, most of all, and I’ll do it in any way I can.”

“He really will,” Louis adds helpfully, widening his eyes. “You should’ve seen the lad when ‘e was fifteen, performing on t’street for pennies. Proper diva, ‘e was. Anything for the attention.”

Harry laughs, eyes gleaming fondly. “That’s true.” Louis slides a smile his way, and tips his head up so he’s not tempted to do something abominably stupid. 

James looks tempted to refuse the answer, but, perhaps guessing that the audience would revolt if he attempted to impugn Harry’s honor, he allows it. “Your next answer better be proper juicy,” James grumbles, and turns to Liam. “Alright now, Liam. Shall we see what you’ll be eating?” 

“Don’t say it like that,” Liam says, laughing. “It sounds so inevitable.”

“Oh, but it is… you’ll never escape the bull penis, Liam.” Louis says ominously, and Liam leans over Niall to punch him in the shoulder. The audience  _ loves _ that, heterosexual bros being bros. 

Maybe he’s too cynical.

The next food  _ does _ turn out to be bull penis, though, so Louis takes it as tacit permission from the universe to keep being as jaded as he wants to.

“Alright, Payno! Your question is: out of the three boys, whose album do you listen to most often?”

The audience  _ oohs _ and Liam looks conflicted, biting his lip.  _ I don’t want to eat a bull penis, you wanker _ Louis thinks in Liam’s direction as hard as he can. 

“I- hmm. I guess, like, out of Lou, Niall, and Harry, I- I listen to Louis’ album more, just generally. It’s not because I think Niall or Harry’s albums aren’t as good, or something, but they’re just different from what I normally listen to.” Liam shares, looking apprehensive at the way Niall and Harry are side-eyeing him. Louis leans over Niall and high-fives Liam.

“Like,” Liam continues, “Harry’s music is rockier, and Niall’s is more country. Both are  _ great _ , don’t get me wrong, I just don’t listen to them as often.”

“Christ,” James sighs, shaking his head woefully, “You guys keep giving well-thought-out, non-juicy answers to this. Do you not know how this game works?”

“We’re  _ tricking _ the  _ system _ , James.” Louis says, patiently. James rolls his eyes. “Alright, sassy. Now, let’s see. Niall!”

The spinner lands on  _ salmon smoothie.  _ “Ooh! We’ve got ourselves a  _ salmon _ smoothie!” James roars, and the waiters bring out tall pink smoothies.

“Who is the most famous person you’ve hooked up with?” James asks, eyes glittering. The audience cheers in anticipation, and Niall looks critically at the smoothie.

“I-” Niall begins, and Louis kicks his leg. Niall looks at Louis in askance, and Louis mouths  _ I will not consume a fucking salmon smoothie, so help me God _ . Niall rolls his eyes, and says: “I’d say Selena Gomez.”

The audience goes  _ wild _ , cheering louder than it’s ever been, and James bends in half with the force of his laughter. “She’ll be well chuffed to hear that, I imagine.” James says, wiping a tear from his eye. “Now… Louis!”

He spins, and the spinner lands on  _ cod sperm _ . Louis wrinkles his nose. “You know,” He says conversationally, “I’ve tasted the human version of that.”

Audience. Shocked laughter. Harry’s eyes go wide, thinking perhaps that he’s just come out, but Louis knows better. It’ll be taken as a joke and his team will pump his Twitter full of homophobic tweets. Nothing’s ever permanent in this industry, is it?

“Interested in broadening your palate, then?” James teases, gesturing to the silvery dishes of cod sperm. Louis coughs, “Never fancied finding out what fish spunk tastes like, to be perfectly honest with you.”

More laughter, and then James pulls out his card. “Louis Tomlinson,” He says gravely, and Louis feels an ember of concern flicker in him. There’s fake-serious and real-serious and James is both, right now. “Who did you write your album,  [ Walls ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLeW-cSbXoa2KeUt2fcaGoW8oCKmTl8R40) , about?”

Louis freezes. His hands, where they’re ducked discreetly under the table, curl into fists.

He’s probably lied about this before, it isn’t anything he hasn’t done.  _ My girlfriend, Eleanor. The ones I love, like Eleanor. Me and my girlfriend, El. _ But there’s something about this reunion that feels sacred, something about the way they’ve all been truthful so far. He doesn’t want to lie.

“Bon appetit, lads.” He says, carefully not looking at any of them. ( _ Ooh _ , the audience goes, and he can already see the tumblr posts.) He stabs one of the sperm with a fork and chews it without breathing in, swallowing it quickly. The clammy feel of it slides down his throat, and he feels nauseous and shaky all of a sudden. The glass of water he swallows doesn’t wash it away.

“Keeping it discreet, then- we can appreciate a man of mystery, can’t we?” James appeals, trying to lighten the mood. Louis smiles weakly.

“Now, Harry!” James beams, and Liam snickers. Louis kicks him, and Niall whimpers instead, which- oops. Louis grimaces at him apologetically.

The waiters bring plates of  _ bug trifle _ out, and James peers at the card. His face wavers slightly, concerned, and Louis spots the swift glance James darts at him. Fuck.

“Who is  [ _ Sweet Creature _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uD6s-X3590) about?” James reads off of the card, and Harry’s face goes carefully still, gemmed green eyes and charisma occupying the empty space. Primly, he slides the petite accompanying spoon in the trifle, and takes a generous bite.  _ Oooooooh _ , the audience cheers, and James whoops. 

Reluctantly, Louis takes a bite of the bug trifle, trying to avoid the bugs. It tastes creamy and vaguely of dirt.

“Another man of mystery, I see.” Out of sight of the camera, he shoots an apologetic glance at both of them. Louis grimaces at him.

“Now, Liam! Let’s see, we have- ooh, water scorpion!” James exclaims, and the waiters trot out with their silvery plates. Louis prods at one unenthusiastically. 

“Which of the boys is your favorite?” James prods, and Louis leans over the table, an elbow propping him up, to raise his eyebrows at Liam. 

Liam hems and haws, and gives a bullshit answer about not being able to choose between his brothers. Louis sniffs, leaning back and rolling his eyes, because the answer would  _ obviously _ have been him. 

Niall’s up next, with pork tongue and cow blood jelly. “Who,” James asks, “Is your favorite member of the band to hang out with?”

Niall drums his fingers on the table, pondering. “Well,” He says, “It depends on the mood I’m in, see.”

The audience laughs. 

“Like, if I’m a bit bored, right, I’ll pop off and see what Lou’s up to- and then usually I’ll realise that he’s just finished putting glue in my toothpaste, and all of the other boys are in on it but me.” Niall sighs theatrically, and the audience laughs; he’s got them in his pocket. Niall’s always been fucking excellent with the fans. Not as charming as Harry, of course, but then again, who is? 

“Now, Liam’s excellent for cuddles, and advice, and playing FIFA with. Harry- well, it’s always proper fun to hang out with him, because the lad can charm the pants off 99% of the human population, and the other 1% are only immune to it because they’ve known him since he was in nappies. Like,” Niall’s full-on gesturing now, “There was this one time, right, we were in Oslo and we’d gotten locked out of our hotel rooms- the key cards were somewhere in the pool, I think - and we’re starkers, soaking wet, and stinking of chlorine, and Harry managed to convince the hotel staff to print us new keys.” 

Louis chokes on a laugh, because fuck, he remembers that. Their first world tour, the way Harry had tasted after the pool. Stumbling into their hotel room, mad with want for each other. Earlier, painting hotel corridors with the sound of their giggling, Louis jumping onto Liam’s back and hollering  _ forward! _

“Keep in mind,” Niall continues, laughing, “That these were  _ Russian _ hotel staff, and the lad didn’t speak a lick of anything other than King’s English.”

“To this day,” Niall finishes, “I’ve no clue ‘ow he did it.” The audience cheers in appreciation, and Louis squints at him. 

“So, you’re saying that Harold’s your favorite, then?”

“No!” Niall yelps, hands flying protectively to his hair. “No, I’m saying that I couldn’t choose between you three, you’re my brothers.”

“Hmm, okay.” Louis says, tone deliberately light. Niall looks horrified. 

James sighs, rolling his eyes. “You four are no fun. Always going on about how much you  _ like _ each other, honestly.” The audience guffaws.

“Louis!” James says, tapping his chin. “Let’s see what item of cuisine you may be eating next… ooh! Deep-fried crickets!”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Doesn’t sound too bad to me, James.”

James tut-tuts, sliding the next card up and scanning it. He laughs. “This’ll be good… Rank Liam, Niall, and Harry from funniest to least funny.”

Casually, Louis tilts his chair back on its legs, leaning back and scanning each of them. “D’you want us to break up again, James?”

“No, no,” James laughs, “If you can’t answer it, you could always take the crickets!”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Well,” He shares, leaning in, “Haz thinks he’s funny, but his knock-knock jokes stopped being funny in 2010, so I’d have to rank him as the least funny.”

“Hey,” Harry protests, all faux-indignation and charmingly furrowed brows. He taps his fingers on the table. “That’s not fair, you laughed at one of my jokes yesterday.”

“Oh?” Louis provokes. “Don’t exactly remember that, mate.”

“It was the one about Donald Trump. The knock-knock joke.” Harry offers, raising his brows. Louis tilts his head. He  _ does _ actually remember that one, and it wasn’t half-bad, but the day he lets Harry off the hook that easily is the day he dies.

“Why don’t you tell it again?” Louis challenges, and Harry sniffs. He’s wearing  [ a crisp burgundy suit ](https://www.google.com/search?q=spill+your+guts+and+fill+your+guts+harry+styles+outfit&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwjMoPOsxb_uAhW9BDQIHW1_DpUQ2-cCegQIABAA&oq=spill+your+guts+and+fill+your+guts+harry+styles+outfit&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQA1CqPFjnQGDfQWgAcAB4AIABY4gB5QSSAQE3mAEAoAEBqgELZ3dzLXdpei1pbWfAAQE&sclient=img&ei=jigTYMyhML2J0PEP7f65qAk&bih=871&biw=1577&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918#imgrc=4Tr5PkCnDdJUcM) , all neatly pinned corners and well-ironed shoulders, over blue-and-white stripes. Louis imagines it’s the one and only time he’s ever willingly buttoned up his shirt. Nails painted glossy alternating shades of black and pink, a fistful of angular rings strung loosely on his fingers. He looks at ease, shoulders broad and sharp, the suggestion behind each finger something beguiling and woozy. 

“Knock-knock.” Harry says, deliberately slow. Louis props up his chin with a hand, smiling. “Who’s there?”

“Kanye.” Harry says, a slow smile threatening the edges of his mouth, and the audience starts laughing.

“Kanye who?” Louis asks innocently, eyebrows arched in faux-curiosity.

Harry exhales on a premature laugh, pressing a bejeweled finger to his mouth to stifle it. The audience laughs along with him, helplessly charmed as always. 

Harry gets himself under control, swallowing. His eyes tilt in Louis’ direction with suppressed glee. 

“Kanye all agree it’s time for Trump to go to prison?” Harry blurts, and the audience explodes into a shocked tizzy, James guffawing. Louis covers his mouth with his hand, unsuccessfully hiding his smile.

“You thought it was funny!” Harry says triumphantly, as if he’s just won some unimaginable laurel. “You did, I saw it.”

“What I found funny,” Louis says primly, “Was the fact that you’ve just ruined your career.”

Harry laughs. “Says the person  [ who called Matt Hancock an evasive coward on Twitter ](https://twitter.com/Louis_Tomlinson/status/1349432086411702272) .”

“Bit of a stalker, aren’t you.” Louis says, archly. “You do realise that you could’ve called up me like a normal person rather than stalk me on Twitter?”

“I have actually called you, you know.” Harry argues, angling towards him. “And I’m not a  _ stalker _ .”

“You remember the exact content of a random tweet from two years ago, but you’re not a stalker.” Louis says, slowly. “Really.”

James coughs, loudly. “As entertaining as this is, boys, Louis still hasn’t answered the question.”

Louis blinks;  _ shit _ . James is warning them, and Louis imagines if he could communicate telepathically he’d be saying  _ stop flirting on live television _ , which is a completely and totally valid statement. Louis coughs into his hand, and says: “Niall’s first, Liam’s second, and Harry’s third.”

“ _ Yes _ !” Niall cries, fist-pumping. Louis flicks him in the earlobe.

“Back to Harry, then!” James cries, smiling. “Last question, Harold, for the crab cupcakes!” He examines the card, and whistles. “This is a doozy.”

“If you could collaborate with one of the boys as a solo artist,” James asks, “Which one would you choose?”

The audience  _ ooohs _ . Harry leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Louis tries not to imagine them inside of him, rings catching  _ just _ so- 

“As a matter of fact,” Harry says, a teasing smile curling his mouth, “We’ve collaborated before, on an album called  [ _ Made In The A.M. _ ](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLbatIuSsTsio4FCvLnFOHg93pDu0qdksN) , out now on iTunes.”

The audience laughs; it’s not that funny, but it’s Harry, so. James wags a finger, disapproving “Nice try, Harold. A real answer, please.”

Harry tips his head back, the smooth line of his throat cut by a crisp collar. “It’s a fair question,” He says, appearing to be actually contemplating it. “But I think I’d have to say- well - hmm. Look, they all have different strengths, right?”

He leans forward, face uncharacteristically focused. “For example, Payno’s really good at melodies. You want a catchy tune, he’s your guy. Um, Niall’s really good at- well, obviously, he’s good at melodies, too, he’s the only one of us who’s really good at an instrument, and like, when you’ve got no idea what to do next, you don’t know what you want to say, he’s genius at coming up with something that fits really well.” He pauses, biting at his lip and glancing down briefly.

“And Louis?” James prompts, when Harry’s been silent for too long. Harry’s mouth curves.

“Louis is really, really, good at lyrics. He’s one of the only people I’ve ever met that can come up with songs without any personal experience, just from listening to other people’s stories. He can capture narratives and stories insanely well, even if he’s just listened to a five second anecdote.”

Louis can feel himself flushing, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Fuck Harry, honestly, he knows how praise makes him feel- shaky, nervous.

“It’s part of why we worked so well together, we all compliment each other. Being in a band with your three best friends is really- it’s great.” Harry finishes, leaning back in his seat easily. The interplay of his muscles under fabric.

“And you? What are your strengths?” James prompts. It’s not part of the question, but he’s just as captivated as the rest of them, lulled by the image Harry’s painted: four boys in fluid coordination, the warm glow of friendship.

The shank-cold reality of the industry refurbished, made new and shining and clean by the honest affection in his recounting. Oh, they know, this audience, that things can’t possibly be so pretty, but they want to believe him. In his secondhand voice, they feel closer to a god, feel closer to such a lovely tale, four best friends writing songs together. 

They’re warming their goddamn hands at the cannibalistic inferno that howls, bright and inhuman and savage; they have no  _ idea  _ what atrocities spring from between the cracks with such fame, the way a land scorched by the sun is infinitely more vicious. 

Still, they’re entranced by the strange black art of his low voice, the bird-work of his hands. Louis doesn’t blame them.

Harry shrugs, looking embarrassed.

“He’s really good at- well, everything, really, but mainly at themes, atmosphere.” Louis speaks up. The sound of his own voice amplified unsettles him. “Without ‘im, so many tracks would have sounded like shit. He’s excellent at making a song sound distinctive.”

He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, heavy and prenatural between his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t look back.

After another round- Liam and Niall get more love life questioning, Louis gets the question “if you had to kick out one member of the band, who would it be”, to which he answers “Zayn”, much to Harry’s amusement - they wrap it up, James saying “And that was Spill Your Guts or Fill Your Guts!”

The rest of the week flies by quickly. They only have two more days left, and they spend it filming skits and a repeat of  [ the dodgeball tournament ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYMGgESFd7E&vl=de-DE) , which they lose 3:0. 

They move on to Jimmy Fallon next. It’s exhausting, but promo always is, and Fallon’s not bad. 

“We,” Jimmy Fallon says over the crowd’s cheers, “Are going to play a little game called Two Truths and A Lie.”

He hands them paddles, one side emblazoned with  _ truth _ and the other with  _ lie _ . “Now, the way you play this game is quite simple. Each of you will tell us three things about yourself, one which is a lie, and two which are true. If you think it’s true, you raise the  _ true _ side of the paddle, and vice versa for a lie.”

“This is going to be quite difficult,” Liam says, chuckling. “We’ve essentially lived with each other for five years, I doubt there’s anything I don’t know about any of ‘em.”

“Well,” Jimmy says, “That’s where you have the advantage. I had to frantically read up on all of your childhoods, and I’ll still probably lose this game!”

The audience laughs. “Why don’t you go first, Liam?” Jimmy suggests.

Liam adopts a look of concentration. “Hold on, I have to think. Hmm. Oh, got it.”

“Okay, my first thing is this: when I was little, about six or so, my parents had a chihuahua named Louis, and I’ve often thought of him and Lou as relatively interchangeable.”

Louis gapes in offence, holding up  _ lie _ . Niall snickers and holds up  _ truth _ , Harry doing the same. He doubts they actually think it’s true, they’re just enjoying the comparison, which- Louis is  _ not _ like a chihuahua. At all.

“Hmm,” Jimmy muses. He holds up  _ lie _ . Liam raises his brows, and continues. “My second thing is… I’ve snogged Zayn before.” 

The audience explodes, shocked and gleeful.

“Who hasn’t snogged Zayn before,” Louis scoffs, rolling his eyes, and across the table he sees Harry stiffen, raising his head. Louis kicks him. 

“I’m pretty sure Zayn’s snogged Zayn before.” Louis continues, holding up  _ truth _ . Niall and Harry follow suit, as does Jimmy.

“The third thing is,” Liam continues, eyes roving thoughtfully, “Once, in Sweden, I tried-  _ it _ \- with a lad, to figure out if I was really straight or not.”

More shocked whispers. Louis collapses on the table laughing. “And what was the end result?” He asks once he’s regained relative composure, wiping something that might be a tear from his eyes. 

“Still don’t like lads, mate.” Liam shrugs, and Louis holds up  _ truth _ after a moment of contemplation. 

“Fair enough.” Louis nods. “Didn’t our Haz once say something along the lines of- what was it, Harold?”

“ _ Don’t knock it ‘til you try it _ ,” Harry quotes, grinning, and Louis smiles briefly at him, turning back to Liam. “I respect you for doing that, mate.”

“So, wait,” Niall prods, leaning forward, “Did you just- how far’d you go? ‘Cos I’ve snogged lads before, I think we’ve all done it once or twice.”

Liam laughs, covering his mouth and flicking a slightly guilty glance at Louis like  _ sorry for bringing up homosexuality _ . Louis wrinkles his nose, shakes his head briefly. 

“Well,” Liam says after a moment, laughing slightly, “I dunno how much I can say on these live cameras, mate.”

“This is a family show.” Harry adds, laughing when the audience all screams  _ OR IS IT _ at him. “Suffice it to say, I tried it and decided it wasn’t for me.” Liam finishes, shrugging. Louis leans over and high-fives him.

After a few seconds, Harry holds up  _ lie _ . Niall tilts his head before raising  _ lie _ , as well, saying “I remember Sweden, mate, it was mad. I doubt you could’ve found time to get away.” Jimmy wavers before holding up  _ truth _ .

There’s a canned drumroll, and then Liam, rolling his eyes, reveals that the chihuahua story is, indeed, a lie. Louis whoops jubilantly, leaning over the table again and pressing a messily affectionate kiss to Liam’s cheek. 

“You and me, Jimmy.” Louis sings, realising that he and Jimmy’ve both got one point on the big screen.

“We really are the dream team.” Jimmy says, fake-emotional. 

Louis nods, solemnly. “Best to stick together.”

Jimmy high-fives him, and then picks Niall to go next. Louis rubs his hands together in anticipation.

“Right, then. Hmm. So, my first thing is that once, when I was absolutely pissed, I mooned my mum’s house.”

Louis leans back, squinting. Slowly, he holds up  _ lie. _ It’s possible, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Liam holds up  _ truth _ , while Jimmy and Harry hold up  _ lie _ .

“Second thing. I’ve drunk-dialled one of my exes and happened to catch her while she was in the middle of ‘aving it off with some other bloke.”

Harry lets out a low whistle of sympathy, wavering between  _ truth _ and  _ lie _ before holding up  _ truth _ . Liam flips his to  _ truth _ , as well. Louis surveys Niall’s face, tapping the paddle against the table. “Which ex was it?” He asks, bluntly.

Niall snorts, leans over the table, and whispers “ _ Selena _ ” into his ear. Louis sucks in a pained breath, and flips the paddle to  _ truth _ . Jimmy follows suit.

“Er, third thing- once, on Take Me Home, I stumbled in on Lou and- er, someone, shagging, and I stayed in the doorway for about a minute in shock before I left.” Niall says, laughing apologetically. Louis narrows a gaze at him. It’s probably the truth; he and Harry were all sorts of careless on the Take Me Home tour.

Still, “Sure it was just shock that kept you watching, mate?” Louis asks, sweetly, propping his chin on his hands and batting his eyelashes. “I’ve been told I’m rather pretty in bed.”

Niall chokes on a laugh, and from his peripheral vision- because wherever they are,  _ wherever _ , Louis will always orient himself so Harry’s in his periphery - he sees Harry flush, making a soft, incoherent, sound.

“I’m sure that’s it,” Jimmy agrees, holding up  _ truth _ . Louis follows suit, flipping it to  _ truth _ and eyeing Harry, who’s staring at him intently.  _ What _ , Louis mouths as discreetly as he can, and Harry huffs a laugh and flips his own paddle to  _ truth. _

There’s another drumroll, and Niall reveals that the mooning story is false, which means that Louis is undefeated. Ha.

“I am unbeatable.” Louis chirps, thwacking Liam in the head with the paddle when he mutters something uncharitable.

Next is Louis. He tilts his head back, thinking. “Okay. First thing: during the  _ hiatus _ , I joined a bridge club out of boredom and ended up staying for a year.”

Niall raises his brows. “Why’d you leave?”

Louis shrugs. “Not too sure, really. They  _ were _ terrible gossips, but it was good fun, once I learned how to actually play bridge and started beating Mrs. MacQuoid, not that that’s saying much. I think I was just too busy. I do give them a ring every now and again.”

Harry looks at him intently, before slowly flipping to  _ truth _ . Jimmy holds up  _ truth _ as well. Niall and Liam hold up  _ lie _ .

Louis smiles enigmatically, a quick curve of lips and teeth, before saying, “Second thing. When I was seven years old, Mum and the girls and I went to summer holiday in Blackpool, and I nearly drowned.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “No- Jay would’ve told me,” He says involuntarily, and Louis laughs softly. “Nah, mate, she was terrified. Never talked about it except to scold me.”

Harry eyes him for a little longer before flipping to  _ truth _ . Louis can guess why: he wouldn’t bring up Jay in a lie. Niall, Liam, and Jimmy all follow suit. “We’re all very glad you survived.” Jimmy says solemnly, patting his hand. 

“Thanks, mate.” Louis laughs. “Third thing, I once got suspended for mooning a teacher.”

Harry immediately flips to  _ lie _ . Niall and Liam hold up  _ truth _ and Jimmy holds up  _ lie _ .

Another drumroll. “The third one was a lie,” Louis hums, yawning slightly. 

“What? But I’m certain you told us about mooning your teacher and being suspended!” Liam protests, looking crestfallen. 

“I ‘ave mooned a teacher,” Louis admits, “And I ‘ave been suspended, but the two events aren’t related.”

“Hmph.” Liam pouts, and Louis leans over the table to high-five Jimmy again.

“Harry! Your turn.” Jimmy says, and Harry leans back thoughtfully. “First thing,” He says slowly, “When I was seven years old, I dressed up as Snow White for Halloween.”

Louis immediately flips to  _ truth _ , and Jimmy, Niall, and Liam copy him. Harry pouts, and moves on to his next one. “Second thing, in 2018, I fell asleep in Britain and woke up in America.”

Louis tilts his head. “As in, like, you were in Britain and then consumed psychedelic drugs and then woke up in a different country?”

Harry coughs, nodding.

Louis flips to  _ lie _ , Jimmy doing the same. Niall and Liam flip to  _ truth _ .

“Third thing,” Harry sings, “My cat, Dusty, before his passing,” He pauses to cross himself, bowing his head. The audience laughs softly, and Louis knows his eyes are going fond. 

He can’t  _ help _ it, because the thing is, Harry’s being purposely funny but also genuine. He remembers how much Harry had cried when Dusty had passed- great, gulping sobs, as if he was mourning the end of an era.

“ [ Had a dog boyfriend named Ted ](https://fangirlingintheprocess.tumblr.com/post/184910391943/dusty-styles-ted-tomlinson) .” Harry finishes, and Louis stills. His hand, involuntarily, flips to  _ truth _ .

Niall starts cackling and flips to  _ truth _ , which means his previous answer is incorrect, but like, whatever. Liam and Jimmy do the same.

A drumroll reveals that the waking up in a different country story was false. “I woke up in a different  _ county _ ,” Harry says, bashfully. “Woke up in Lancashire.” The audience blinks at him, endeared and confused. Bless their American hearts.

_ Anonymous: _

_ Why is everyone freaking out about the Dusty and Ted thing? Harry’s cat had a boyfriend? Why is that such a big deal? Lol. _

_ ruth-loves-larry _ _ answered: _

_ Oh sweetie… okay.  _ [ _ This _ ](https://fangirlingintheprocess.tumblr.com/post/184910391943/dusty-styles-ted-tomlinson) _ post explains it pretty well. In case you don’t feel like reading it, here’s the summary: during xmas 2010, Harry made a Facebook account for his cat, Dusty Styles. Around the same time, Louis made an account for his dog, Ted Tomlinson. Some antis try to say it wasn’t “actually” them, but their mothers and sisters interacted with those accounts online- once, Jay even thanked “Ted” for the xmas gift he’d given her. Additionally, there are previously unseen pictures of Harry on Dusty’s account, so… _

_ They were genuinely so sweet and in love i can’t even. Harry even made  _ [ _ this _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwYObhjfVcw&feature=youtu.be) _ fucking video for “Ted”, the “best boyfriend ever”. A really fucking soppy tweets between the two:  _ [ _ here _ ](https://twitter.com/Dusty___Styles/status/247744447239053313) _. Also  _ [ _ this _ ](https://twitter.com/DustyStyles__/status/225093935717040128) _ …? Never been too sure what exactly it was (casual shade? Genuine affection? Maybe E****or was friends with H and that’s why he felt comfortable with her bearding for L? idk) _

_ Updates with the YT account and tweets from Dusty stopped around 2012/13 so Harry acknowledging it is A HUGE step :) _

_(If you’re interested in larry tweets on their main account_[ _this_](https://twitter.com/harandloutweets) _account is great at archiving them._[ _This_](https://twitter.com/Louis_Tomlinson/status/128504686130114560) _tweet absolutely killed me. #welivetogetherdealwithit._[ _THIS_](https://twitter.com/Harry_Styles/status/132898360578424833) _ONE. i don’t even know what_[ _this_](https://twitter.com/Harry_Styles/status/131740560124944384) _is, or_[ _this_](https://twitter.com/Harry_Styles/status/126748551157002240) _one. g_[ _ah._](https://twitter.com/Harry_Styles/status/86134060291854336) [_these_](https://twitter.com/Harry_Styles/status/84056954787475456) [_iconic_](https://twitter.com/Louis_Tomlinson/status/84057197314715648) [_three_](https://twitter.com/Harry_Styles/status/84057489838051328) _. And Jesus Christ,_[ _this_](https://twitter.com/Harry_Styles/status/84006932934950912) _one.)_

_#anon_ _#dusty and ted_ _#larry #larry proof_ _#twitter_

__

  
  
  
  


“And with us today, we have the beauteous boys of One Direction!” Ellen says, winking. “Beauteous?” Louis mouths, tilting his head to the side. Niall pinches him.

“Now, boys,” Ellen says, leaning forward, “Last time you were on here, we played a little game called Never Have I Ever.”

The audience cheers.

“So,” Ellen says, seriously, “I thought it’d be fun to, you know, reminisce about old times, and, ah-” She pulls several blue and white paddles out, handing them to Harry, who passes them down.

Louis takes the paddle in his hand, thinking of the last time he’d seen a paddle that wasn’t on a talk show. Probably a sex thing. The sting of a paddle across his arse, the effort not to cry out, arousal.

“Are you ready?” Ellen asks, and they all exchange various shrugs. She beams.

“Never Have I Ever… been to a nude beach.”

Louis flips to the  _ never _ side, raising his brows when Niall flips to  _ I have _ . Liam hasn’t, and Harry- he watches as Harry wavers, paddle flipping lethargically from one side to another, the audience’s cheers multiplying. Sighing, he flips it to  _ I have _ , and they shriek.

“Me too.” Ellen winks at Harry, cheeky, and he laughs. She picks up the next card.

“Never Have I Ever… been arrested.”

Louis holds up  _ I have _ , thinking of how many times he’s been pulled over for being such a shit driver. Harry presses his paddle to his chest, looking virtuous and appalled. Louis sticks his tongue out.

Niall has, and Liam and Ellen haven’t. “You two are the ones we need to keep an eye on, I see.” Ellen says, gesturing to him and Niall, and Niall grins, pulling Louis under his arm, and kissing his head with exaggerated affection.

“All right,” Ellen chuckles, plucking up the next card. “We’ve asked you this before… Any tattoo regrets?”

“Okay,” Harry says, suddenly, setting down his paddle. “Me and Louis have a ship and compass together, right?” The audience is  _ loud _ , louder than he’s ever heard it before, and Louis feels his smile stiffen at the edges, flaking and shivering. Where’s Harry  _ going _ with this?

“And the other day, we were all of us at the bungalow, and he put Sriracha in my tea-” The audience starts laughing, “And I swear to God, I thought about getting it removed.”

Louis immediately promises himself that he’s going to put Sriracha in Harry’s tea for the entirety of tour. “In my defense,” Louis says, leaning forward, “I thought it was Liam’s tea, and he deserved it.”

Liam throws his hands up. “Oi! What’d I do?”

Louis rolls his eyes, twisting so he can pat Liam’s shoulder condescendingly. “You  _ ruined _ my tea the day before-”

“I was making him tea! I was being considerate! But  _ no _ , it’s done  _ wrong _ -” Liam appeals, turning to face the audience.

Louis rolls his eyes again, because he doesn’t  _ want _ to get into this, but well, if Liam’s going to bring it up… “How long have we known each other, Liam?”

“What does that-”

“ _ How long have we known each other _ ?”

“Bit over ten years-”

“Exactly. Ten  _ fookin’ _ years, and you still can’t get my tea right. And you call yourself my best mate, honestly.”

Harry raises his hand. “I can make your tea right.”

Louis turns to him, incensed. “You’d better, because if not, I might  _ get the compass removed _ -”

“You were the one who said it meant nothing in that YouTube video!”

“Oh, did I  _ hurt your feelings _ -”

“Boys, save the domestics for later.” Ellen jokes, and the audience goes even crazier, if possible. Louis flushes. This is- fine. He truly doesn’t  _ mind _ the speculation, because it is true, and he  _ does _ want to fucking come out, it’s just that Harry  _ doesn’t _ , and he’s tired of letting this boy break his heart.

“Never Have I Ever… joined the Mile High Club.” Ellen asks, and Louis barely refrains from an eye roll, because talk shows can be quite unimaginative at times. He flips it to  _ I have _ , watching Harry do the same. He doesn’t even remember where they were flying to, just remembers being in the air with nothing but clean expanses of sky, Harry pressing him in the tiny airplane loo and fucking him  _ hard _ , the uncomfortable press of the soap dispenser in his back.

“Never Have I Ever… gotten out of a speeding ticket by being a celebrity.”

Louis tilts his head, considering. He probably has. He flips to  _ I have _ , watching Harry do the same, Niall and Liam both flipping to  _ I have never _ . “An even divide between criminals and innocents, I see.” Ellen cackles, and they all chuckle along.

“Never Have I Ever… forgotten the name of a date.”

Louis  _ hmms _ consideringly. “Does it count if it isn’t exactly- a date? Or if you never knew their names in the first place?” He asks, and the audience goes haywire, Niall cackling and Ellen covering her face in faux-horror. 

“Don’t think a shag counts as a date, Lou.” Liam says, laughing, and Louis shrugs, flipping to  _ I have never _ .

Peripherally, he sees Harry scowl, flipping to  _ I have never _ as well. Louis glances at him briefly, reassuringly. Harry’s jealous streak is going to be the death of him one day.

“Never Have I Ever seen all of my bandmates naked.”

“Like, at the same time?” Harry asks, and the audience giggles. “What kind of band  _ are _ you?” Ellen responds, and Harry covers his face.

“Oi, it was  _ your _ weirdly phrased question.” Louis defends him. 

_ Calm down _ , Liam mutters in his ear, and Louis consciously relaxes his shoulders, trying to  _ stop _ . Defending Harry will be forever woven into him, that protective instinct rising in him like the smoke of blood in water; a fact of nature. 

“We ‘aven’t had a band orgy yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” Niall says, grinning. Ellen cackles, “Careful, or your girlfriends will hear.”

Louis stiffens, unease running through him like milk. It’s been two years since he’s had to say the words  _ my girlfriend, Eleanor _ out loud.

They move on quickly, Louis more subdued than normal. 

“Never Have I Ever… sexted.”

Louis flips to  _ I have never _ easily, not looking at Harry because he doesn’t want to know.

“Never Have I Ever… lied on a talk show.”

They all flip to  _ I have _ , and Ellen eyes them all suspiciously. “How do I know you’re telling the truth, huh?”

“You never really know when someone’s telling the truth,” Harry says unexpectedly. “You just have to trust the strength of human connection.”

Louis leans forward, arching around Niall and looking at him intently. “What the fuck have you been smoking?”

Harry laughs, a bluebird cackle. “Occasionally I philosophise.”

“Philosophise. Is that code for something, then?”

“This is a family show, Lou.” Harry says, solemnly. “Or is it.” Louis deadpans, leaning back and sinking back into the couch cushions.

“We’re just rebels, aren’t we.” Harry sighs, and all of a sudden it’s so intimate, just the two of them. The world dulls into faded pictograms, peripheral vision. He’s in a dusty room with Harry, dim light and wandering hands and the smell of old roses. 

“ _ I knew you were trouble when I walked in _ ,” Louis hums, grinning when Harry snickers.

“On the subject of Taylor Swift,” Niall cuts in, eyes desperate,“Have you heard her new record? It’s quite brilliant.”

Louis blinks. Niall. Liam. Ellen. Audience. Shit.

“Good for her,” Louis sighs, closing his eyes briefly. 

“What do you think of Taylor Swift’s new album, Harry?” Ellen pipes up, cheery and blithely ruining so many things. Louis opens his eyes to scowl at her.

“Ummmm,” Harry says, managing to make it sound like a thoughtful answer. “I thought- well, I dunno, it’s definitely good. Her music’s always been good, hasn’t it? Like. Right?”

They all stare at him.

“Right.” Ellen says eventually. 

“Yeah.” Harry nods.

“Yeah.” Ellen repeats.

Harry pauses, staring at her. “Okay.” He says after a moment, shrugging.

They move on. Ellen asks them about what they plan to do, how far they’re going to take this. Liam confirms that they will be releasing a new album, and going on tour, much to the audience’s delight.

  
  
  


They’re going to be performing two of their new singles on Kimmel. It’s- a lot.

Harry’s in a  [ shimmering blue blouse ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+show+outfits&sxsrf=ALeKk00hK7RPGDYaNXr3LQglgXdxxiW9aw:1612077103371&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwie-uKYz8XuAhXdFjQIHUerB8YQ_AUoAXoECBsQAw&biw=1310&bih=716#imgrc=LuOu94iN_yD2uM) , all drooping pussycat bow and sheer fabric over white slacks. Niall’s in a  [ linen button-down ](https://www.google.com/search?q=niall+horan+show+outfits&sxsrf=ALeKk02WTYp-6Fgt13wj-lKRj0h93Vrg0g:1612077183737&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj59Yu_z8XuAhXdCTQIHeYxCjoQ_AUoAXoECAUQAw&biw=1310&bih=716#imgrc=UbpfVkLjpojrhM) , honest workman’s lines and a scarf tied around his neck. Louis is wearing  [ Adidas over a white tank ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinson+adidas+otra&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwi-3f70z8XuAhUIg54KHTXaA-0Q2-cCegQIABAA&oq=louis+tomlinson+adidas+otra&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQAzoECCMQJzoCCAA6BAgAEB5QyxlYiC5gsC9oAHAAeACAAVuIAd8DkgEBNpgBAKABAaoBC2d3cy13aXotaW1nwAEB&sclient=img&ei=8FgWYL6lLoiG-gS1tI_oDg&bih=716&biw=1310#imgrc=9uPM6_jGJn3lsM) , loose over a pair of tight black pants. Liam’s wearing a  [ silky mustard top ](https://www.google.com/search?q=liam+payne+tour+outfits&sxsrf=ALeKk00vP4F3esJF7IOzlymbWAWZHCGfEQ:1612077423562&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiRzrmx0MXuAhVRFTQIHeoqB6EQ_AUoAXoECBAQAw&biw=1310&bih=716#imgrc=wLZSLPzc30OwBM) .

Show outfits.

“I didn’t think we’d be- we’ve literally just announced our reunion.” Liam says, biting at his lip. Louis sighs. 

“Mmm. Team wants to jump on all of the publicity. Good job we already finished the album, innit?”

“This’ll be our first live performance since getting back together,” Harry points out. 

“Fuck, that’s true. Should we ask Caroline to run out and buy us a cake?  _ Baby’s First Performance _ ?” Louis asks, only half-teasing.

“Ha,” Harry says, eyes falling closed. They’re sprawled out bonelessly in one dressing room, all of them. Harry’s fingers find the circumference of Louis’ ankle, circle it loosely. “No, but. Like. We’ve practiced and done soundcheck and all of that, but. It just feels-”

Louis sits up, slipping down the pale couch and flopping next to Harry on the shag carpet. He traces the filigree of Harry’s curls, tugs lightly. “It feels bad?” He prompts.

“No,” Harry says softly, like he’s still puzzling it out. “No, not- not bad, but just. Different. Special.”

“Just like you,” Louis mocks lightly. He nuzzles Harry’s nose briefly, careful not to let their lips brush. 

Harry makes a disconsolate grumbling noise, leveraging his body neatly over Louis’ and pressing him into the carpet. Louis goes easily, letting his body fall pliant. 

“You little shit.” Harry murmurs into the skin of his neck, and Louis laughs loosely, nose brushing Harry’s curls. “Thanks, love.”

“Could you two do your weird pre-show mating ritual somewhere else?” Liam says without looking up from his phone. Louis feels Harry’s lips against his neck, scowling. “I get that it’s like, necessary for you,” Liam continues, “But it’s been seven years since I’ve had to see it, and I’m perfectly fine with that, thanks..”

“Bugger off, Liam.” Louis says, closing his eyes and feeling Harry’s body relaxing into his, skin against skin. 

The room sways above him, showy lights and an ostentatious bouquet of carnations, shag carpet and his boys on a white couch. Everything turns the colour of twilight, dusty roses strewn on pale ground. The light held inside the walls dims, belly-dark and comforting. 

He wants to fall asleep here, nothing but Harry around him.

They have a show in a half-hour.

He doesn’t move.

  
  


They’re in a half circle, the room pitch-black in the most guttural way- faces in the audience invisible, anonymous as the night - and there’s light shining on his hair, illuminating Harry’s face and Niall’s guitar and Liam’s hands, clasped around the mic.

The world blurs and fragments into simple things, nothing but the frantic alchemy of kineticity, bristling in his palms and his throat.

Spotlight, shimmer, vulnerability. Stage, boys, hum. Sound, strings, movement,  _ now _ .

Niall starts amid the matter-of-fact guitar, the center of their little spotlit semicircle. “ _ There is a town, somewhere down a country road _ ,” He sings, nothing but the minute shake of his palms betraying his nerves.

“ _ I see it now _ ,” Liam sings, stepping up, “ _ I take it everywhere I go _ .”

“ _ The river sways _ ,” Louis sings, one step closer, voice smooth from years of practice, “ _ I can almost hear it now _ .”

“ _ As if to say _ ,” Harry takes over, rich with emotion, “ _ You’re not the only one who wants a way out _ .”

“ _ So, I go _ ,” Niall sings, and they all sing “ _ Cause I don’t want to feel like I don’t know you anymore _ ,” Their voices- a miraculous harmony, startling and intensifying, echoing off the walls. 

The sound fades, and Liam sings “ _ I memorize those roads _ .”

“ _ Somewhere out in the big wide country _ ,” Niall sings, and they all belt “ _ Someone’s falling in love in a backseat _ .”

“ _ Giving it away _ ,” Harry sings bitingly, brokenly, “ _ Like their hearts won’t ever break _ .”

“ _ God bless the young hearts sipping cheap wine _ ,” Louis sings, eyes falling open, “ _ Getting drunk with their friends for the first time. _ ”

“ _ Thinking nothing’s gonna change _ ,” Liam sings, and they all belt out “ _ Til everything changes _ .”

Drums. “ _ They never leave _ ,” Niall sings wryly, “ _ They’re all having babies now _ .”

“ _ Watching daytime TV _ ,” Harry sings, high and forgiving, “ _ Living off the cossip of a cruel small town _ .”

Niall: “ _ So, I go, _ ” and again they all sing “ _ Cause I don’t want to feel like I don’t know you anymore _ .” 

“ _ Don’t recognize my face _ .” Louis sings softly, and it’s a blur from then on, the song progressing and tangling in its emotional climax. Bridge, outro. Applause, riotous and momentous.

They glance at each other again, four eyes meeting. It’s indescribable, the feel of it, cheers rising like fire and common sense carried away in a flood of exhilaration. The only steady thing is the four of them; their eye contact keeps him human.

They tumble into the next song, Harry taking the first verse. The mood is different, exhilaration rather than nostalgia; devotion instead of wistfulness.

“ _ Take your time, I’ll be right here. I know no one could ever love me better _ ,” Harry sings, that rockstar voice, all smooth high notes and gritty low. 

“ _ Take all night _ ,” Louis jumps in, stepping forward. “ _ You’re the truth that is breaking me and keeping me together _ .”

“ _ Together _ ,” They all sing, portentous and echo-ey, before catapulting into the pre-chorus, all high notes and reckless energy: “ _ I wanna be your touch, sleep is so tough, you’re burning up my mind. _ ”

“ _ What would it feel like if you tore me apart, _ ” Harry sings, roughening the words, fitting them to his purposes, sexy and lost in the notes, “ _ Come on, chew on my heart. Come on, chew on my heart. _ ”

“ _ I wanna be your touch _ ,” They all sing, “ _ Sleep is so tough, you’re burning up my mind. _ ”

“ _ What would it feel like if you tore me apart _ ,” Liam sings this time, voice arching into a falsetto with ease, “ _ Come on, chew on my heart. Come on, chew on my heart. _ ”

“ _ I’m on fire _ ,” Niall sings, low and utilitarian, “ _ I’m a hot mess. I’m thinking things that I might start regretting _ .”

“ _ So hear me out, I need you now _ ,” Harry takes over, fingers curling roughly around the mic, “ _ I’m spiraling, I’m sinking down. _ ”

“ _ Look for me, I’m sending up a message _ .” Louis sings, staring directly into the audience. “ _ A message. _ ” His voice is low, the striking note of a minor key.

The pre-chorus bursts forth, high and delirious,  _ I wanna be your touch, sleep is so tough, you’re burning up my mind. _

_ What would it feel like if you tore me apart _ , Harry sings brutally, savagely,  _ Come on, chew on my heart. Come on, chew on my heart. _

The descants run into the night like wolves, bright and sending sparks where they go.  _ Tear me apart _ , Liam wails into the endless blackness, voice sailing high. 

They come back down to Earth for another, final, pre-chorus,  _ I wanna be your touch, sleep is so tough- _

_ It’s burning up my mind! _ Notes erupt, the stamping, triumphant melody of the chorus.  _ What would it feel like if you tore me apart. Come on, chew on my heart. Come on, chew on my heart. _

In the darkness, there is Liam’s hand in his, Niall’s arm around his shoulders, and in lieu of light there are Harry’s eyes, shining and strikingly green. Louis focuses on them, the blown pupils and deliriously concentrated colour, until the cheers- applause and screams, whooping and catcalls - fade away.

  
  


“That was  _ wonderful _ ,” Jimmy Kimmel tells them, patting Harry’s hand. They’re each sat on tall chairs, in post show clothing (simple and comfortable, except for Harry, who’s wearing  [ a creamy Gucci suit  ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+outfits&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01DnVVyinY0jFB8qXSwhBnqPJsH4w:1612134897454&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwij3JG_psfuAhUyHzQIHc0MB-kQ_AUoAXoECCcQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=u6moj9gBJKLuhM) over a white tank, crisp lines and brown buttons and pink nail polish).

“So- those were two of your songs off the new album, right?” Kimmel asks, and they all nod. “When can we expect- sorry, what’s your album called?”

They exchange grins, Louis fidgeting on the stiff chair. “It’s called  _ What Makes You Beautiful _ ,” Liam says, smiling when the audience cheers.

Kimmel laughs. “Oh, I see. Fitting! Now, when can we expect it to be released?”

“Shouldn’t be too long now,” Louis speaks for them, tapping his fingers on the seat. “Couple months, maybe.”

Liam twists, looking up at him. He and Harry have chairs in the front, while Louis and Niall have chairs in the back. “I thought-”

“ _ Couple _ of months, Li.” Louis says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, right, right.” Liam says, appeased. He glances at Kimmel. “Right, yeah. Couple of months.”

“Hmmm.” Kimmel nods. “Very exciting! Now, the fan reactions to your reunion have been… rather crazy, to be honest.”

“Oh, definitely.” Liam laughs, taking over smoothly. “Yeah, we’re all just blown away by it. We love the fans, definitely.”

Kimmel laughs. “Well, to reward them, we thought we’d showcase some videos that they made during the hiatus.”

Louis glances at Niall, horrified- if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that there’s more footage of them behaving like absolute idiots than not.

The lights dim, blackness falling over the room. The screen lights up with  [ a YouTube video. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02IPbhxNoJM)

It opens up with  [ video diary footage ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvehK_Xakig) . “ _ We! Are! One! Direction! _ ” They chorus, and Zayn yells “ _ yay! _ ”

Louis puts his head in his hands as [ the video  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02IPbhxNoJM) progresses. It’s so fucking strange, honestly, because the Harry that he sees- fashionably clad, at ease and languid, rings strung along his fingers and a laugh on his mouth - is both utterly different and enticingly similar to the Harry of 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013. 

The curls remain, the squawking laugh and terrible sense of humor lingers. The same devotion. 

The next clip is of Zayn dancing in the X-Factor, and Louis bursts out laughing, collapsing into Niall, who’s cackling as well. There’s more footage of their performances, their Viva la Vida performance.

“ _ Liam, _ ” 2010 Louis says, “ _ Is the smart one. _ ” 2010 Liam smiles tentatively.

“ _ Harry, _ ” His younger self continues, “ _ Is the flirt. _ ” With effort, 2010 Harry winks at the camera, and the audience howls in laughter.

“ _ Zayn is vain. _ ” 2010 Louis says, and, winking, “ _ See what I did there? _ ” 

Louis puts his head in his hands again, because his younger self is a fucking embarrasment.

“ _ Niall is the funny one. _ ” 2010 Louis says, and it cuts to the next clip, Harry behaving like an absolute idiot. “ _ Get out of my kitchen _ !” 2010 Harry wails melodramatically, and the studio audience is in stitches. Present day Harry covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter.

More video diary footage, Louis feeling Harry’s forehead with a murmured  _ “Oh, I think he’s got a temperature now _ ”, Louis screaming  _ she’s mine _ and Harry wincing. There’s some clips of Zayn saying  _ vas happening _ , of course there are.

_ “Trouser, trouser, trouser, _ ” 2010 Louis says, and then hits Harry square in the balls- or round, as it were. Louis gives his younger self a mental pat on the back. “ _ Straight in the balls, that’s what I’m talking about. _ ”

“ _ I’m tired, and it’s winter _ ,” 2010 Harry pouts, all pale skin and indignant round eyes. 

“ _ Sorry I’m late, lads _ .” 2010 Louis says, white plasticine trash can lid over his head.

It’s almost unsettling, their past selves settling over them like an eerie form of second-sight, blurring just out of vision, form. When he looks at Harry, he sees both styled curls and soft, untattooed love-handles; creamy Gucci and the Jack Wills shirt, his 16-year old self turning and smiling, sparkling and unmarred. Green eyes, laughter.

“ _ Why did the mushroom go to the party _ ?” 2010 Louis asks, deadpan, and Zayn howls with laughter when he answers: “ _ Because he was a fun-gi. _ ” 

2010 Harry bounces up and down to music on his laptop, curls bouncing with him. 

“ _ Will you marry me _ ,” 2010 Louis says, looking blankly at the camera, and Harry faces the camera too, saying “ _ Simple, but effective _ .”

16 year old Harry stumbles through a segment, and “ _ No! Jimmy protested _ ,” 18 year old Louis interrupts. Both present-day and 2010 Niall are cackling- it’s something startling and revealing, the sound of that laughter, the unabashed  _ hahahaha _ that’s always so distinguished Niall from the masses. Unchanged. The rayon color of his hair, like rods of pale, stiff, wheat is the same as well. The round likability in his blue eyes, behind which is hidden keen intelligence, observation, experience.

“ _ My hidden talent is juggling! _ ” 16 year old Harry beams, and proceeds to juggle, fruits flying up and down. “ _ My worst habit _ ,” He says, looking smug, “ _ Is getting naked all the time _ .” (The audience  _ howls _ .) “ _ Mammary _ .” Harry pronounces slowly, grinning.

2010 Louis gives Liam a lovebite, the real Liam turning and fist-bumping him.

“ _ Louis could have a carrot in front of his, is that something you would consider _ ?” SugarScape asks them, and young Harry says, seriously, “ _ Don’t think it would cover it _ .”

18 year old Louis smiles at Harry, fond and crinkling, high-fiving him. The affection in that simple gesture, the endless adoration nestled within the crease of every crow’s-eye, the blue reduced to mere suggestion, faint watermarks of color and eyelashes; it scares him, frightens him. 

The time it harkens back to, back when every grin wasn’t an act of treason, back when brushing their fingers together, even- daringly - entangling them, wasn’t a crime.

“ _ Penis jokes! _ ” Harry says, and the studio audience laughs.

“ _ Well, a couple of guys, they were up to no good! Started making trouble in our neighborhood! _ ” They recite, and Zayn says, high-pitched:“ _ You’re moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air _ .”

“ _ Describe to me how you fell out of bed! _ ” 2010 Louis says, faux-jovial interview voice, and 2010 Harry says: “ _ Uh, I fell. Out of bed _ .”

“ _ I wanted to be a criminal _ .” 19 year old Louis says, matter-of-fact, and the audience laughs. Young Harry tries to touch his nose with his tongue; present-day Harry makes a horrified noise, groaning into his palms.

“ _ I’m Niall. _ ” Niall says. “ _ I’m Harry, _ ” young Harry says, raising a single hand in greeting. “ _ I’m Liam, _ ” young Liam says, earnestly. “ _ I’m Zayn, _ ” Zayn says, looking unaffected.

“ _ And I’m Jennifer _ !” Young Louis says, and they all giggle, puppy-ish and slim, five laddish boys in unthreatening colors bending double in laughter. Puppets on strings, they were, marionettes held up to ecclesiastical adoration. And yet the way they clutched their bellies and rolled around on the floor meant laughter, not poison.

“ _ Well, what do you bring, Liam? No hair! _ ” 19 year old Louis roars, and Louis grins, tugging at Liam’s Jesus-hair. Liam makes a hissing noise, turning and slapping his hands away. Louis pouts.

“ _ Oh, for God’s sake, Niall! _ ” 19 year old Louis yells, and there’s an agonized scream. “ _ For the benefit of the radio, Niall’s just dropped his tea _ .” Young Harry says, prim and informative.

“ _ No, we don’t really do that, to be honest _ .” Young Harry says, clear skin and olive beanie, eyes shining green. “ _ We feel like that objectifies women, and that’s not really what we’re about. _ ”

(The audience cheers, and Harry flushes slightly, mouthing “oh, stop it”.)

“ _ It says ‘do not dial nine’ _ ,” Younger Louis says, “ _ So… I dialled nine _ .”

There’s a repeated clip of Niall hitting himself in the face with a dodgeball, and Louis laughs loud and long, slumping in his chair and tipping his head back in glee.

“Looking good, lad.” He murmurs, and Niall makes a face, shoving him off with a muttered “Like you didn’t look stupid when you pretended to be a cat?”

Harry turns in his chair, frowning slightly. “He didn’t look stupid.” 

“Thanks, love.” Louis mocks, reaching out and tugging a curl of hair. 

“ _ London’s quite… big. _ ” 16 year old Harry says, and when Louis laughs, he backtracks quickly: “ _ No, no, it’s not. It’s quite small. You can get lost there. You know _ ?”

19 year old Louis turns, laughing. “ _ What are you talking about? You do talk some shit in interviews _ .”

Younger Harry pouts and stands, loping to his bed and sliding under the covers.

There’s a long compilation of all of them falling onstage, to various degrees of embarrassment. Harry falls the most, of course. 

Another clip of Niall trying and failing to do the worm.

“ _ We’re really funny _ ,” 19 year old Harry says, grinning. Styled hair and shirt dipping low, necklaces and black swallows. “ _ Aren’t we? The laughs we have _ .”

“ _ Between me and you? _ ” Niall says, giggling. “ _ Pranks, laughs, oh _ .” It cuts to another clip of Niall rolling Harry in a trash can, which Louis can’t help laughing at. “ _ Bromance _ !” Harry sings, looking sneaky and proud of himself. 

“ _ Niall, the bad boy _ ?” 21 year old Louis says, looking exasperated. His shirt, white against tanned skin, is dipping low as well, and he’s playing with his sunglasses, drawling his words with the stem playing in his mouth. “ _ Give it a rest. Niall, the church boy, more like _ .” Zayn, long-lashed and relaxed, laughs.

“ _ Listen, forget what they taught you in Scouts, Payno _ .” His younger self says, tank top and woods crowding in a bower of green around them. “ _ We’re doing it the Tommo Way _ .”

The tree branch structure collapses, and Zayn, sounding exasperated, says “ _ Louis, you idiot! _ ”

“ _ Pimp daddy _ ,” 19 year old Harry says, fist-bumping Niall, and present day Harry turns in his seat to fist-bump present day Niall. “ _ Just chilling out in me box _ .” Niall groans.

“ _ I’m not feeling fabulous! _ ” 20 year old Harry cries out, headscarf in tow.

“ _ I’ll be like Kim Kardashian _ ,” Younger Niall says, groping his own arse.

“ _ I’m really sorry, I was having a wee _ .” 19 year old Harry says, running a hand through his hair. “ _ The toilets are ages away _ .” He blinks, looking at Louis, a smile curving his mouth. “ _ What did we win? _ ”

The lights flick on, and Louis blinks, wrong-footed. Harry’s hair is short and well-kept, curling roguishly over his temples. Rings, pink nail polish, Gucci. Liam’s hair- long, silky. Niall- broad-shouldered, older. Zayn, missing.

It’s 2022. They’re on Jimmy Kimmel. He tries to breathe.

“Well, the fans really missed you a lot, although I have to say I don’t know why.” Kimmel jibes, and the audience laughs, interspersed with good-natured boo-ing.

“Will you be going on tour?” Kimmel asks, looking interested, and Harry answers. “We’re- yeah,” He pauses, fiddling with his rings. “Yeah, we’ll be going on tour. After we release the album. Tickets out- I dunno when tickets’ll be out, actually. After the album, probably.”

“That was a good answer,” Louis tells him, leaning down and petting his hair. Harry glances up, smiling. His eyes catch the light- pale green, eyebrows a faultline over his lids. The angle of his mouth, tipping slyly. “Thanks.”

“Now, speaking of the fans…. We’ve got some fans that tweeted their reaction to the reunion, and this is- honestly, you’ve got to see this…”

  
  
  


“Tell me this is over.” Niall says, collapsed on the shag carpet. Louis sniffs, kicks him, and sits on his back. 

“We’ve finished the promo, yeah.” Harry says, closing the door behind him. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” He adds, frowning slightly.

“Those goddamn chairs were so goddamn stiff on my goddamn arse.” Niall says, eyes closed. “Goddamn it.”

“We all had the same chairs, love.” Louis says, yawning. He readjusts himself, so that he’s laid comfortably on Niall’s back. “And you don’t see me complaining.”

Niall cracks an irritable eye open. “That’s because  _ your _ arse has more- erm,  [ padding ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinsons+bum&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01ZEQip-hi6Ju51WWva0FTByE4-Ag:1612217197069&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiAytOK2cnuAhWDdd8KHeTgAvEQ_AUoAXoECBQQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=OgNn1qAMZNuYAM) .”

Louis sits up immediately, offended. “Did you just call me fat? Niall Horan, I weigh less than you. Wanker.”

“I didn’t mean-” Niall starts, at the same time as Harry, who’s saying “You have to admit, he’s got a point, Lou.”

“I don’t have to admit anything.” Louis says, churlishly. He flops back down on Niall, gratified to hear an  _ oof _ .

“It’s a compliment, trust me.” Harry says, grinning. He bends down, sinking on one knee to absentmindedly grope him. Louis arches into the contact, wriggling his bum lasciviously, and Harry makes a soft sound, eyes locked onto his own hand. 

“No, no, no,  _ no _ .” Niall says from under him, trying to wiggle free. “Hotel rooms are one thing, but  _ on top of me _ is another. Jesus.  _ No. _ _ Off. _ ”

Grumbling, Louis slides off of him, splaying out melodramatically. He peers up at Harry, pitiful. “I’ve been abandoned by my pillow, Harold.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Harry says, laughing when Louis adopts a betrayed expression, shoving at him. “Alright, fine. Here.” He scoops Louis in his arms, nudging him so he falls just so, caught in the chink of Harry’s elbows. 

“Onward.” Louis says, closing his eyes, and Harry shuffles to the couch, sinking down carefully. Warmth, a large hand stroking through his hair absently, the graze of a mouth against his temples. Benediction. The world smells like roses.

**TMZ: Larry Stylinson Friendship Rekindled? Fans Overjoyed!**

_ In 2010, a certain pair of boys were so close that it led fans to developing “Larry Stylinson”, a fond ship-name that eventually devolved into a decade-long conspiracy. _

_ Remember? We do! Those boys were Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, and unfortunately, in 2015, their friendship had dissolved to the point of collapse. They were thought of as enemies, rather than lovers. Fans wept and for some time, people thought they would never reconcile. _

_ However, it looks like they are friends once again! In exclusive footage of the One Direction brunch (link: here), fans saw the two behave affectionately, laughing together and smiling. In the Late Late One Direction series by James Corden, which has since hit 50 million views, they seem to be close, often referring to each other by the nicknames “Harold” and “Lou”.  _

_ While we at TMZ, for one, don’t know what caused their rift or their renewed friendship, we are overjoyed! _

_ ruth-loves-larry: _

_ Okay, so I don’t know if anyone saw the Ellen interview, the Spill Your Guts Or Fill Your Guts, the Fallon segment, or Kimmel interview (that was a joke OBVIOUSLY YOU GUYS HAVE SEEN THEM and if you aren’t what are you even doing??). Here is my attempt to do a masterpost kinda _

_ -okay so in the Spill Your Guts Fill Your Guts we all saw James ask Louis who Walls was about, right? Right? That wasn’t a hallucination, right? Haha just checking beCAUSE last I checked, the “official” story was that L wrote the album for E****or. And when Louis chose to eat cod sperm rather than answer it, that wasn’t just me, right????? HE DIDN’T WANT TO LIE BUT HE ALSO COULDN’T SAY “Harry.  _ [ _ ObViOuSLy _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkLBaekXgM8) _.” _

_ -Speaking of cod sperm…. HE LITERALLY SAID “I’ve tasted the human version of that” and um, what? Um. What? Did our baby Lou just COME OUT? _

_ -And after the Always You question, James ( _ [ _ james corden is the darkest larrie _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i6v0LMPFU0w) _ , never forget) turned to Harry and deadass asked him who Sweet Creature was about. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. WHAT. Obviously,  _ [ _ OBVIOUSLY _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkLBaekXgM8) _ , Harry couldn’t answer it, because his answer would have been “Louis Tomlinson is my sweet creature, of course, always.” _

_ -Louis teasing Harry about his humor. I can’t. Even. “Haz thinks he’s funny” AH. _

_ -And Harry remembering the exact phrasing of a  _ [ _ tweet _ ](https://twitter.com/Louis_Tomlinson/status/1349432086411702272) _ from years ago. HE’S SUCH A STALKER I LOVE HIM. _

_ -Okay and the whole thing where he went on a tangent about how amazing Louis is at songwriting. HE’S SUCH A PROUD HUSBAND.  _

_ -THEY ACKNOWLEDGED ‘DON’T KNOCK IT TIL YOU TRY IT’  _

_ -ted and dusty references AHHH _

_ \- AND- this is probably the biggest larry proof of the year - HARRY ACKNOWLEDGED THAT HE AND LOUIS SHARE COUPLES TATTOOS!!!! “Me and Lou have a ship and compass together”.  _ [ _ Ellen’s face lol _ ](https://www.google.com/search?q=ellen%27s+shocked+face&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk02RpBL0IdHaUbEeISPpC5VmZRkHsQ:1612219148112&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj52_2s4MnuAhUIpp4KHY6gA0YQ_AUoAXoECA8QAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=M0hZUbDGbwS02M)

_ -When Ellen said the word “girlfriends” Lou kind of died inside. Watch it. Like, he looks like someone’s just slapped him. _

_ -and the TMZ ARTICLE. Finally! General public is realising! _

_ -in conclusion, these past days have been insane for us larries. I SMELL A COMING-OUT IN THE FUTURE!!! _

_#larry stylinson_ _#larry proof_ _#masterpost_ _#also did you see_ _#Harry’s Kimmel post-show outfit i was NOT ready_ _#still sweating tbh_

_ 19,628 notes _

Promo is mostly done after that, the One D website replaced with a countdown widget to the day of album release (about two months from now). They drive back to the bungalow and pack up, colourful clothes crumpled haphazardly in suitcases. Harry presses against him, eyes closed. His eyelashes fall against his cheeks. Louis tucks his head in Harry’s neck and breathes him in with the morning.

The drive back is quiet, the morning shrouded with shadows and dusky, unspoken words. He curls in Harry’s lap and falls asleep. 

When he wakes up, Harry’s gone and he’s bundled in  [ Harry’s coat ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+coat&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk00w-l036n-7hRMQtBLb8f2Wb7bkUg:1612233241740&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjX3qztlMruAhUsheAKHVX3CkQQ_AUoAXoECBcQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=2LjI4jICoPSDrM) , the smell of Tom Ford cologne clinging to its crisp tweed. He blinks, shifting in his seat and straightening, dizzy with sleep. The landscape shifts outside of the window, blurred grasses and grey sky.

“Where are we,” Louis says groggily, and Alberto coughs. “Only about ten minutes until we get back to your house.”

“Where’s Harry?” Louis yawns. 

“Dropped him off already. He didn’t want to wake you.” Alberto tells him, eyes meeting his through the rearview mirror. He looks judgemental. Louis makes a grumpy face at him, curling up again in the folds of Harry’s coat- which, he supposes, belongs to him now.

He falls asleep like that, Harry’s cologne rich and prickling in his nostrils, rough mohair against his cheek.

The following days are rather lifeless, dispirited and blurry. He retrieves the dogs from Eleanor’s house, thanking her profusely, and they do an impromptu photoshoot, him smiling for a selfie with her and Bruce. Unfortunately, he also happens to be wearing Harry’s coat, a detail that the fans seize on with vigor.

_Omg do mine eyes deceive me or IS LOUIS WEARING HARRY’S COAT IN THE IG PHOTOS EL POSTED #larry proof_ _#louder louis louder_ one fan writes, and he stares it, blankly.

Another sums it up more succinctly, with the endlessly tasteful “ _ BAHAHAHAHAHAHA ELOUNO-NO _ ”. 

“Oops,” Louis tells Zayn, tiredly. Zayn’s too busy laughing to respond, and he frowns at the phone. “Oi, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m almost always on your side, Lou.” Zayn sighs. “But you have to admit that this particular… fiasco is your fault.”

“I admit to nothing; it was cold and if Harry didn’t want me to wear it he wouldn’t have left it.”

Zayn laughs. “You know as well as I do that Harry’s probably fucking delighted over it, if anything. Have you talked to him about it, yet?”

Louis chews his lip, curling up into Bruce sideways. He’s sprawled on one of the rugs in his living room, Clifford snoring at his back and an old Guns N’ Roses CD playing lazily through the speakers. It’s grey, but it’s Britain, so that’s to be expected.

“Well,” Louis says, petting at Bruce’s rough hair, “Not really. Erm. Kind of.”

“You’ve texted him.” Zayn translates. He makes a considering noise. “What’d you say?”

Louis frowns. “It was a picture of a daisy.”

Zayn pauses. “I- what?”

“Y’know,” Louis says, rolling his eyes and resting on his elbows, phone propped to his ear. “Like oopsie-daisy.”

“Like oopsie-daisy,” Zayn repeats. “Wait- do you - hang on, d’you mean to say instead of texting something like  _ sorry, your coat is comfortable, didn’t mean to kick up a fuss _ , you texted him a picture of a  _ daisy _ on the off-chance that he would connect it to the phrase ‘oopsie-daisy’ and that, in that unlikely scenario, he would understand what it meant?”

“There’s only one meaning.” Louis says, scowling. “It’s just, I dunno,  _ oops _ . Like you made a mistake, and you’re sorry, but it’s nothing to fuss over.”

Zayn groans loudly into the phone, swearing. “Why are you so bad at this,” He says, despairingly. “A  _ daisy, _ Christ.”

“Wot,” Louis says, indignantly, “Like you’d do any better?”

“Gigi and I are good at talking to each other. We do our best to keep the channels of communications open on both sides.” Zayn says immediately, sounding both like he’s rattling off a memorised statement and like he’s genuinely happy. 

“That’s absolutely disgusting, mate. Honestly, shove off with your  _ healthy relationship _ nonsense.”

“You’re so emotionally constipated,” Zayn sighs, sounding despairing. “Why are you  _ so  _ emotionally constipated? I thought gay men were supposed to be good at their feelings or some shit?”

“That’s such a stereotype. Also, I like girls as well.” Louis tells him.

“Bisexual men, then. Look, you and H were together for five years.  _ Healthily _ .”

“I- what - so?” Louis says, blankly.

“ _ So _ ,” Zayn says, patiently, “You know how to talk to him. Why don’t you? A  _ daisy _ . Fucking hell.”

“Hang on,” Louis says, sitting up, “Why’re you talking like we’ve got some conflict or summat- we’re  _ fine _ , he’s probably cackling somewhere, the smug bastard, and in two months we’ll be doing album promo and then, tour. Everything’s fine.”

“ _ Everything’s fine _ ,” Zayn imitates. “In two months you’ll be  _ on tour _ with him again, but you’re  _ fine _ .”

“You said the same thing about the bungalow,” Louis snaps, glaring at the phone. “And look how I handled it.”

“Yeah,  _ look how you handled it _ . When I got there you’d been sleeping together for the majority of it.”

“ _ Platonically _ !” Louis hisses into the phone.

“ _ You cannot platonically share a bed with your ex-boyfriend. _ ” Zayn hisses in return, sounding at his wit’s end.

“Yes, you  _ can _ , if you’ve been  _ friends _ for longer than you were dating.” Louis says, and then freezes, because he hadn’t quite realised that fact himself. Their Past- capital P, quotation marks - loomed so large, always in the forefront of his mind. 

It was shocking, unsettling to realise that something that had always defined his interactions with Harry, that had sketched out architecture for their friendship and described obliquely their patterns and terms of endearment, was small and far-away and curled in on itself as the carapace of a woodlouse.

“ _ Friends _ .” Zayn mocks, laughing to himself. “Harry always,  _ always  _ calls you ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart’ or sometimes just ‘Lou’. You’ve written a song called  [ _ Always You _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSfVtcHpgTQ) about him, and he wrote a song called  [ _ Sweet Creature _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uD6s-X3590) about you, with the lyric ‘ _ wherever I go, you bring me home’. After you broke up. _ You slept in the same bed for a month. He touches you in non-platonic ways, almost constantly.”

“He does  _ not _ ,” Louis interrupts, flushing.

“He gropes  [ your arse ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinsons+bum&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01QtsroRmozT353ZszvBqA52aVbdA:1612235858577&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwih2pPNnsruAhXQop4KHQYTB0cQ_AUoAXoECBUQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=547FoXMr9fOl9M) whenever he can get away with it.” Zayn sighs. “He puts his arm around your shoulders constantly, pulls you on his lap whenever you’re not in view of cameras, and you play footsie under the table  _ all the time _ .”

“ _ Platonically! _ ” Louis whisper-screams into the phone.

“ _ You cannot platonically grope your ex-boyfriend’s arse. _ ” Zayn grits out.

“Yes,” Louis says crazily, “You can.”

“You’re out of your mind, I hope you know that.” Zayn groans.

“I am being completely logical. We are platonic, platonic, best friends.”

“Let me rephrase,” Zayn says, audibly rolling his eyes. “You cannot platonically grope your ex-boyfriend’s arse when you’re both still in love with each other.”

Louis opens his mouth. Closes it. “I- it’s been so long, he could’ve moved on.” Louis says, helplessly.

Zayn scoffs. “If you genuinely thought he moved on from you, you wouldn’t smile at him the way you do. And if  _ he _ moved on  _ you _ , he wouldn’t be smiling at you like he does.”

“I’m going to pretend I understood that.” Louis sighs airily, transferring the phone from one hand to another. Zayn makes an aborted noise.

“Look, I- oh, Gigi needs me. I gotta go, Lou, but- just- you and Harry have never been anywhere near platonic, and you  _ know _ that.”

“I- okay, bye,  _ but _ -” Louis starts, and Zayn cuts him off.

“Just be careful, Lou.” There’s a  _ click _ , and Zayn’s gone.

  
  


Five days later, Harry knocks on his door. 

He’s tired and rimmed with lack of sleep, hair in wild spikes, a knit blanket slung around him. He’s wearing only a worn  _ The Killers _ shirt and a thin pair of trackies. He still smells like Harry, from plentiful use of Harry’s coat.

Harry can tell, if the smug smile on his face is any indication.

“What the fuck,” Louis says blankly. “What the  _ fuck _ . You’re- you’re supposed to be in some- fucking L.A. or summat, what’re you doing  _ here _ ?”

Harry shrugs, hands slid in the pockets of  [ yet another expensive coat ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+gucci+coat&sxsrf=ALeKk00sLFBefA0xoVE6gPbmjkgjgro12w:1612245118297&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjH_MOMwcruAhXJITQIHXgvDlwQ_AUoAXoECBYQAw&biw=1310&bih=716#imgrc=c1YYXrbKaB603M&imgdii=V-2yszuYjNhTHM) . He looks tired as well, the skin under his eyes dark with sleepless circles, hair unstyled and messy. He smells like travel, like roads and tarmac and airports. “Missed you.” 

Louis closes his eyes, turning and shuffling back to the couch. Harry takes it as an invitation to enter, pulling his suitcase over the threshold and letting the door swing shut behind him.

“You’re staying, then?” Louis says, muffled by the pillows. 

“If that’s alright with you, of course.” Harry says, diplomatically, and Louis laughs, giggling into the blanket. “As if that would stop you, you daft prick.”

“I resent that.” Harry says, and if Louis could open his eyes he’s sure he would see another exaggerated frown.

“I don’t care, I’m too tired to talk with you, make me breakfast.” Louis says, slurring his words in his exhaustion. He feels Harry walk forward, closing the distance and sinking to his knees by the couch.

“What- why are you so tired, baby?” Harry murmurs, a large hand smoothing over his nape, thumb brushing the shell of his ear.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Louis sighs, turning more into Harry’s touch. He cracks a single eye open, belligerent. “Didn’t you ‘ear me? Breakfast.”

“All right,” Harry murmurs, laughingly. He pauses in his movements, eyes lighting on something strewn on the armchair. “Is that- that’s the coat I left with you.” He sounds delighted.

“I was cold.” Louis says immediately, defensive. “You left it with me, it was the only coat that I had on hand. Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Harry sings under his breath, moving familiarly towards the kitchen, presumably to make breakfast. “Eggs?”

“Bacon,” Louis slurs, and Harry laughs again. It sounds far too fond.

It’s a tale as old as time, curled up in the same bed and breathing the same air, legs slipped in between thighs. The ease that their bodies carry with each other. 

His body, in sleep, recognizes Harry’s, recognizes the particular smell and texture of his skin; it burrows closer. 

They wake, Harry makes breakfast, and they eat it next to the bay window, feet brushing. Harry writes, pen tracing looping scrawls of music in his journal, and Louis does the same, finding endless inspiration in the colour of Harry’s mouth, the loop of his hair. It’s so easy, it is, songs blossoming forth with wild and generous abandon. The muse is kind. 

They play makeshift games of footie in the backyard, go for covert walks with the dogs, FaceTime Niall. Dinner, usually something crisp and melt-in-your-mouth, Harry occasionally sneaking in vegetables. Showers, reruns on the telly, sleep. Repeat.

It’s all horrifyingly domestic, and Louis is- well, he’s not exactly uncomfortable, which stems from the fact that he is, in fact, disgustingly comfortable. He and Harry have always been easy. The reason they can’t be together isn’t- has never been -  _ them _ , it has to do with external forces entirely. 

Occasionally, he indulges himself in fantasy- if they’d never made it, if he and Harry had met at uni instead of at the X Factor; how wonderful it would be, how private and protected. 

He tries not to think of it too much, because it's useless, but it’s  _ hard _ when Harry’s looking at him like that, all green eyes and scrunched nose and all Louis wants to do is fucking kiss him, okay. All he wants to do is slide into his lap and snog him until they’re both red-lipped and dizzy.

  
  


“We need crisps,” Louis yawns, scrubbing a hand through his  [ hair. ](https://www.google.com/search?q=sleepy+sweater+louis+tomlinson&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01kSH5ZLVs0DmzeL67kNY9240avBw:1612321606444&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjZgvaE3szuAhXUrJ4KHWe-A0YQ_AUoAXoECBIQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=eCzIzHUtgt1GEM) He yawns again, rubbing a sweater-clad hand at his eyes. “Eggs too, probably.”

Harry glances up, eyes stricken by a fat shaft of light. Pale, the way they always were in the mornings, the exact colour of liqueur jaune. “We have eggs.”

“No, we don’t.” Louis frowns. “We’ve been using them almost every morning.” He swings his feet slightly from his perch on top of the kitchen table. “I had less than a dozen in the beginning. We definitely don't have enough, by now.”

“I’m the one  _ making _ the eggs,” Harry says, spinning the pen absentmindedly on the ridges of his knuckles. “I think I’d know whether or not we have eggs.”

“And,” Louis continues, ignoring him, “ _ And _ , even if we  _ did _ have enough eggs- which we  _ don’t _ , mind - we could always get some more. There’s no limit on eggs.” 

“So, what you’re saying,” Harry drawls, “Is that we do have eggs, but you want to get some more anyway.”

“That’s not what I was saying.” Louis sighs, slipping off the table and snatching the pen. Underneath where Harry’s written  _ crisps, the kind Lou likes (x2?) _ , he writes  **_EGGS_ ** in thick capital lettering, underlining it several times.

“We do actually have enough eggs,” Harry says, thoughtfully, “But you’re right, we could always get more.”

Louis growls in frustration, stalking over to the fridge. He spots the carton of eggs, and opens it; there are three eggs left. “Ha,” He says, triumphantly. “I was right.”

“What do you mean, you were right?” Harry says, incredulously. “I said there were eggs, you said there weren’t, and there  _ are _ eggs. I win.”

Louis turns, rolling his eyes. “I said that we didn’t have  _ enough _ eggs,” Louis explains. “Three eggs isn’t enough, so  _ I win _ .”

Harry stares at him in silence for several moments, before smiling, sweetly. “Whatever you say, baby.” He says, ambling over and plucking the list from him. He glances at it, writes something, and slips it into his pocket.

“What- what did you write?” Louis asks, suspiciously. Harry grins, strolling away, to the entryway.

“Harold!” Louis yelps, and Harry pauses at the door, winking. Louis stills, aghast. The audacity.

“Relax, Lou.” Harry says, peaceably. “Be back in a few.”

With that, he opens the door and pops out, closing it with a deft  _ snick _ .

Harry’s mystery grocery item turns out to be Cool Whip, and they wage long and frightful war against each other. Every room, every  _ surface _ is another battlefield. They’re slippery and stinking of artificial vanilla by the time they’re done, and Louis can tell Harry wants to fuck him. 

He smiles at Harry, sweetly licking Cool Whip off of his fingers.

Harry’s eyes darken.

Slowly, he licks a stripe up his thumb, swallowing the white cream and tipping his head back in exaggerated bliss. “ _ Mmm _ ,” Louis incants softly, eyes falling open again. Fingers, mouth. Tongue.

Harry’s eyes are dark, the pupils blown, and his hands twitch at his side, like he wants to touch.

“You can clean up.” Louis says, batting his eyelashes, and walks out of the room.

  
  


The album drops on November 28th, 2022. 

  
  


_ “We are men!” Harry Styles famously proclaimed, before skipping- daintily, provokingly, provocatively - across the stage, reiterating: “We are men.” _

_ At the time we left them, or perhaps more accurately, when One Direction left us, the statement was not yet true.  _

_ They were men in the legal sense of the word and boys in almost every other. They pranced around stages and made their adoring crowds laugh, they wrote about sex in a childish, cloyingly provocative way. The elusive “maturity” they sought with each album was not yet present. _

_ Their last album, “Made In The A.M.”, had good songs, that much is undeniable- songs that were catchy and well-written, the sort of thing that sticks in your head for weeks. “Drag Me Down”, “Perfect”, and “History” are all examples of this.  _

_ They nudged at something more heartfelt with “If I Could Fly”, something giddier with “Olivia”, and something truer with “Walking In The Wind”. “End of the Day” was a simple song with an honest message, a workman’s message- but in some strange way it was so incontrovertibly true that there was no depth to it, only immovability.  _

_ It was not a rousing success and not an utter failure. It was something suitable for a boyband’s swan song, a Goldilocks bed of laurels to rest on. _

_ But, we are not here to discuss “Made In The A.M.”, we are here to discuss their new album, “What Makes You Beautiful” and how, perhaps, the boys of One Direction have become men. _

_ It is on the whole, an album that plays well on wistfulness, especially emphasized by its title- “What Makes You Beautiful”, a surefire way to evoke 2010’s nostalgia. The rarity of it stems from its narrative, which offers both heartbroken fury and vulnerability, shout-along songs and piano-backed ballads.  _

_ Ah yes, the narrative: that of a wistful man- man, yes - who has gone through heartbreaks, who has loved and lost in the typical way, who has looked back on his past and felt both keen hurt, longing and hope, who has found a love that will last and has pledged his everything.  _

_ “What Makes You Beautiful” is not an album that pushes at genre boundaries- the boys of One Direction, after all, are no Taylor Swift - yet it is undeniably good. Gone is the careless revelry of “Midnight Memories” ( _ _ Straight off the plane to a new hotel/Just touched down, you could never tell, etc.), gone is the childish sexuality aping maturity of Four and Made In The A.M. (Waking up beside you, I'm a loaded gun) and in its place are boys who have had their hearts broken and have come through it as men. _

_ It lingers within the accepted boundaries of pop, but offers a beautiful, tragic, ecstatic, story from within the convention. You don’t need to be extraordinary to listen to, appreciate, and understand “What Makes You Beautiful”- it is an ordinary story, a story of the people. _

_-Excerpt from_ ** _“What Makes You Beautiful” Album Review_** **|** ** _Pitchfork_**

**BuzzFeed: Every Song From “What Makes You Beautiful”, Ranked**

_ Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you know that One Direction has reunited and come together for their sixth studio album: “What Makes You Beautiful”!  _

_ Obviously, we had to try to rank them. (Don’t worry, we’re not just listing our favorites- it’s based on reader polls as well as critical reviews!) _

_ 1st Place:  _ [ _ Livewire _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42iR3O4guQA) _. The nostalgia, sadness, and acceptance of this song- combined with the haunting melody and the piano - made it truly stand out. _

_ 2nd Place:  _ [ _ Afterglow _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NGQfFCFUn4) _. This was such a beautiful song. It was wistful but not sad, and the love story in the background was, although not central to the message, lovely. The lyrics are wonderful. _

_ 3rd Place:  _ [ _ What Makes You Beautiful _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJO3ROT-A4E) _ (Remastered) (feat. ZAYN). This song was wonderful, although very different from the original, Summer-Nights-esque pop anthem. It’s infinitely more mature, and Zayn Malik’s voice definitely made some Directioners cry in joy out there! The slight lyric change made it more feminist-friendly, which we totally approve of. _

_ 4th Place:  _ [ _ Changes _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_YmNAGKuS8) _. The guitar and rich, soulful, almost-country singing makes this song a gem. _

_ 5th Place:  _ [ _ In My Blood _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlkBLwl4aBM) _. This song was widely praised as an excellent portrayal of anxiety and depression. The emotion and honesty in it just might make you cry! _

_ 6th Place:  _ [ _ Chew On My Heart _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H3J7ZKdCx-g) _. The devotion and love in this song is *sigh* overwhelming. Whoever Liam Payne wrote this for (cough cough Maya Henry) is a very lucky lady! _

_ 7th place:  _ [ _ Thinking About _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZLPy3Fea2E) _. The piano is a perfect backdrop for the tragic lyrics. Grab a box of tissues, Directioners, because it’s about to get heartbreaking. _

_ 8th Place:  _ [ _ Wicked Game _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y58r5vpIU1c) _. This song is both fun and catchy and sad. The beat makes it sound like a Disney villain’s song, while the emotion in their voices is truly something. _

_ 9th place:  _ [ _ Make Me (Cry) _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXyBcKV0UIo) _. This is a genre-bender, which makes sense, as it was written by Louis Tomlinson and Zayn Malik- working together. Confused? Overjoyed? So are we! The spare backing track and simple lyrics definitely made this song a keeper. _

_ 10th place  _ [ _ Where Were You In The Morning _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRic28k8sVU) _. Whoo! Someone hand over a towel, because it’s getting hot in here! This song, written by Louis and Niall, tells the story of a first-date-slash-one-night-stand gone horribly wrong, and we love it! Whoever left them in the morning must be crazy! _

_ 11th place  _ [ _ Lego House _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4BLVznuWnU) _. The soulful and loving lyrics leave no doubt- this song is a new classic. _

_ 12th place  _ [ _ Cringe _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KaJqLCMUt7s) _. This rock-y, fun, anthem is definitely a shout-along song. We can already see the stadiums singing along! _

_ 13th place  _ [ _ Hurt Any Less _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDLg5Zt3q6o) _. Whoo! This angsty ride is sure to be a favorite of all the girls out there suffering from a breakup! _

“The release of  _ What Makes You Beautiful _ has been met to general critical acclaim,” A petite reporter says, brown skin and a colorful headscarf, mic held forth in jutting demand. “What do you have to say about that?”

“Well.” Liam says, smoothing a hand over his chin thoughtfully. He’s been the mouthpiece of the band for God knows how long- the least likely of them to blurt out band secrets, suave and loud and good with words. It’d been Louis at first, until he’d done  [ things ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8FI4nZIR_8%3Fp%3D&m=0&ts=1612503315) management hadn’t exactly approved of, and- well.

“We certainly didn’t expect it- I think we all know what music critics have to say about boybands,” Liam jokes, and the gag lands; a ripple of laughter passes through the reporters assembled at the press conference. “But of course it’s wonderful to read. I think our main hope is to keep making good music for the fans. We definitely don’t plan to rest on our laurels.”

“Harry and Louis,” The next reporter blares, and Louis stiffens, spine clenching. Each individual vertebrae tensing and slotting into place, piston-tense. “What do you have to say regarding when and why you patched up your feud?”

Louis spots Harry, in the corner of his eye, leaning towards the mic, and swift as a heron, he steps forward, effectively cutting off Harry’s path. He smiles at the woman, mouth over the microphone. “I think, “ He says, “The press as a whole would do well to avoid speculation. Harry and I ‘ave always been friends, and anything besides that is just. Rumors.”

A hush falls over the crowd, and then the next reporter moves forward, the previous melting into the crowd abashedly.

“When are you four going on tour?” 

They exchange glances. Tour planning has been exhausting, endless emails and decisions. Rehearsals are in a month, and that’ll be exhausting, as well. 

“Tickets should be available sometime in early February.” Liam says at last, and the sea of reporters nods.

“Louis, fans saw that you and Zayn collaborated on a song. Would you say that you two have overcome your differences?”

Louis tilts his head to one side, thoughtful. He steps up. “Well, I’ll say this: we overcame our differences quite a while ago. Zayn’s like a brother- a disowned brother that ran away from ‘ome and disgraced the family name - but a brother all the same.”

There’s a murmur of nervous laughter, and then the next reporter nudges forward, mic upthrust. “When exactly did you and Zayn become friends again?”

“Erm,” Louis says, stalling. “We- erm. I think that’s private, thanks.”

The reporter is too professional to make a face, but Louis can sense his discontent. He wants a scoop, something quotable.  _ Erm, I think that’s private _ is hardly headline-worthy.

“Will Zayn be joining you on tour?” The next reporter asks, determined to get an answer, and that’s- well, that’s a good question, actually. They asked Zayn about it, and he texted back something noncommittal. 

(Privately, he confessed to Louis that he didn’t want to be pigeonholed back into what had, back then, felt like the most restrictive of circumstances. He would collaborate with them, hang out with them, but he refused to be seen as part of the band again.)

“Well,” Louis says, “Zayn isn’t part of the band. If he wants to join us for a few shows, well, I reckon we still remember how to make it work as a five-piece. Don’t we, boys?” He glances back, and they all nod, uncertain. “But I’d lean towards no.”

The next reporter steps up to take the mantle.

  
  
  


“Goddammit, Lou.” Zayn sighs. “You had to say that? My Twitter mentions ‘ave gone insane.  _ @zaynmalik, if you don’t join One D on tour 2022 will be ruined. _ ” He mocks, sounding pissed off.

Louis makes a face, crossing his legs on the couch. It’s dim, the lights falling in a hushed firmament of amber, hatched lamps and a stray scented candle (Harry’s) burning waveringly. The couch is comfy, and he’s in an oversized  [ Black Sabbath tee ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinson+black+sabbath+tee&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk01PmaHiHoUUyoTuYA1bOeWST6rbEQ:1612545819565&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwio9oimodPuAhWoElkFHW81DmkQ_AUoAXoECBIQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=mL_JSPI-S6XpbM) and one of  [ Harry’s lavender jumpers ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+lavender+sweater&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk02ydny_hwyunlMb44LfuAl-TQhS6w:1612545881827&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiN-ODDodPuAhX4ElkFHe_TDAwQ_AUoAnoECBcQBA&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=crYC_fUwYHjkAM) . There’s a mug of tea in his left hand, sweater tugged over his knuckles, and he’s curled in the deep, notched fold of the sofa, cradled like a child in corduroy cushioning. 

“I’m sorry, Z.” He says at last, tucking the phone in the bone gap of neck and ear, the sharp spur of his shoulder pinning it in place. He closes his eyes. “I’m- I did mean it, you know. If you joined us- for a few shows, you wouldn’t even have to sing with us. You could do opening-”

“ _ Me _ ,” Zayn says, appalled. “Opening? Mate, I haven’t been an  _ opening _ act since I was  _ seventeen _ .”

Louis opens his eyes, laughing slightly. “Oh, we’ve got a  _ diva _ ‘ere, eh?”

“That stopped being funny in 2013,” Zayn sighs, sounding older than he has any right to. Sometimes, Louis feels separate and childish when set against Zayn: he’s so  _ put-together _ , a wife and a child he lives with, someone who’s faced his demons and has come out stronger for it. 

Bronzed skin and Vogue magazines, unapologetic albums and slashed urban clothing, a new knowledge that he carries, being  _ that _ sort of parent. The stable sort.

Louis  _ knows _ it isn’t his fault that he can’t see Freddie as often as he wants to, knows that Briana, after comprehending that she would never be Louis Tomlinson’s trophy wife, had switched lanes utterly and almost refused to let him see his son. But as steady and reassuring as that knowledge is, there’s also the creeping guilt, because he also knows that there’s more he could do, more he could try. 

He could give up touring- God knows he doesn’t need the money - and fight for custody; he could move to the U.S. permanently and be able to see Fred every weekend. There’s options he hasn’t tried and probably will never. 

Freddie is his son but he isn’t  _ his son _ ; there are things that Freddie will discover for himself while he’s a continent away, an ocean between them. It’s heartbreaking that someday Freddie will resent him, will wonder  _ why were you never around, why weren’t you with me _ ? There are excuses, countless good and  _ genuine _ reasons, but they don’t make up for his absence. 

He calls whenever he can, sends extravagant presents for Freddie’s birthday and every damn holiday he can think of (the last gift he’d sent had been for Veteran’s Day, which isn’t even a public holiday in Britain), and keeps up an e-mail correspondence with their housekeeper, a deceptively slim Bolivian woman by the name of Lara. 

(She answers the questions that Briana won’t: his first word, his favorite toy, his habits, his passions. Her e-mails were typed in halting English at first, furnished with misspellings, and Louis couldn’t believe all that she did for him, crouching over a computer and typing out painstaking words in a language not her own for a man she barely knows. 

_ Freddie has bin liking the Blak Widoe toy. He can’t eet squash, Mis Briyana says. He cals la hormiga little crawlees. Hope you are well.  _

Over the years, her English has improved, and the details of her own life sneak in.  _ Freddie misses you. When he misses you he watches the films about the wizard from England because he misses your accent. Miss Briana does not like it. She has improved our pay recently and I was able to give my papa a Nochebuena present: a book by Pablo Neruda, who papa has always said was a true patriot, even if he was not from our country. Sending good wishes, Lara. _

In return, Louis writes as much as he is able- stories and rambles and questions. He’s never been good at putting his thoughts down in paragraph form- it’s why he writes songs, compressing his thoughts into melody, ridding them from everything but their essence, their emotion - but for her, an ally and friend who doesn’t need to help him but does, he tries.  _ Thank you, _ is the main theme of all of his letters. 

_ I’m glad that she’s paying you more, you deserve it- I really can’t thank you enough, you do so much. Did you get the present I sent you? It should have arrived with Freddie’s. I hope he doesn’t miss me too often- how often does he watch Harry Potter? - but I’ll try to come visit more often.  _

_ I remember last e-mail you said that you liked a few of our old songs that you heard on the radio, and that’s something- One Direction’s old songs weren’t that great, if I’m being honest.  _

_ Pablo Neruda was born in Chile, wasn’t he? Have you ever been there? I haven’t read much of his poetry- I’m not really one for poetry, to be honest - but what I read was always good.  _

_ Has Freddie been keeping warm? I don’t think it snows that much in California (if at all) but the flu is the flu.  _

He signs off all his e-mails with  _ -Louis _ . 

They’re friends, the two of them. It’s quite strange if he thinks about it, befriending a young woman he’s barely ever met in person, but then again, it’s not that strange. Just human connection. He sends her postcards and little souvenir trinkets when he’s on tour.)

Anyway. Zayn. “I  _ am _ sorry, you know.” Louis reiterates, blinking slowly at the guttering flame winding out of the wick of a jasmine candle. It even smells like Harry. “I didn’t mean- you  _ could _ join. It’s not- but yeah. Suggesting it made people ‘opeful, and they’ll be disappointed if you don’t show.”

“Which is your damn  _ fault _ ,” Zayn says laughingly, seemingly unbothered by it now. “Nah, nah, I’ll show up for one of the shows. Maybe do a little of  _ You and I _ , eh? Liam hasn’t been handling  [ my high notes  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GhH-ueLzgc) that well.”

“I’ll tell him that.” Louis grins. “Will you really?”

“Might as well.” Zayn tells him. His voice vibrates over the miles between them. Louis imagines looking out the window and seeing a golden thread of sound between them.

“What about-” Louis breaks off, unsure how to phrase it.

Zayn sighs. “I had a long talk with my therapist and Gigi about it. I- yeah, I think I’ll be able to handle it. Only a few shows, yeah? Don’t go getting your hopes up, I’m not joining you on your world tour.”

Once again, Louis is confronted by the knowledge of his inferiority, Zayn’s ability to confront his own demons leaving his own lackings apparent. “That’s great. How’re Khai and Gigi doing, anyway?”

“Khai’s just discovered Play-Doh,” Zayn tells him, sounding beleaguered. “It’s  _ everywhere _ , man. The house smells like it.”

“Have you tried kinetic dough?” Louis offers, curling deeper within the ribbed seam of the couch. “It’s- I think it’s magnetic or summat, so it’s easy to clean up. Doesn’t smell like much.”

“I’ll try that.” Zayn says, thoughtfully. “Anyway, have you talked to H, yet?”

Louis sets the phone in his lap, blinking at it. “I- did I not tell you? He’s living with me.”

“He’s-  _ what _ . The fuck? Since when?”

“Since before the album came out, I dunno.” Louis says, lifting the phone and cradling it again. “I don’t keep a fookin’ calendar. Don’t you start-”

“ _ I have told you this about a thousand times _ .” Zayn hisses, interrupting him with utter disregard. “But I’m your best mate, so I’ll say it again. You cannot live with your ex-boyfriend, who calls you pet names and makes you breakfast and cuddles with you and is extremely sexually attracted to you and vice versa without getting back together, which you refuse to do. Oh,  _ fuck _ , have you slept with him yet? Please, please, please tell me you haven’t-”

“I ‘aven’t slept with Harry,” Louis says with dignity. “Nor do I plan to. And it’s none of your business-”

“Oh,  _ isn’t _ it,” Zayn says, wildly. “I cleaned sick out of places on your body I never want to look at again after that lad with the metal piercings vomited on you, you don’t get to-”

“Wait,” Louis says, frowning. “Wait. Why’d he vomit on me?”

Zayn coughs, the sound dusty and crackling through the phone line. “Alcohol poisoning, drugs, motion sickness, I dunno.”

“And where on my body was this?” Louis interrogates, sitting up straighter.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Zayn says, firmly.

“No, no. It’s  _ my _ body, I think I ‘ave a right to know where people’ve touched-”

“It was after the two of you hooked up in a club bathroom; you were on your hands and knees and he vomited on your-”

“ _ You don’t have to finish that sentence _ .” Louis interrupts, tossing the phone away. He crawls to retrieve it a moment later. “I changed my mind. It’s better not knowing.”

“Yay.” Zayn says emotionlessly. “Smartass.” Louis scowls.

“Look who’s talking.” Zayn sighs, and hangs up.

Louis glares at the phone and sets it on the coffee table, sprawling on the couch and relaxing. The light extending from the candles, the lamps- it undulates in harmony, like amber seaweed in the waxy light of the ocean, fronds arching with half-lit gusto. The seance-pattern of it lulls him into a sort of half slumber, falling victim to the curving shape of the candle flame. 

Harry’s- somewhere. He doesn’t actually know where Harry is, at the moment. It’s a big house.

“Was that Zayn?” Harry asks from behind him, and Louis flinches instinctively, curling into a ball. He relaxes a half-moment later, heart thrumming like a sparrow’s but it’s  _ Harry _ .

“Mmm. Why.” He sighs, voice monotone in relaxation.

“No reason,” Harry says shiftily. Eyes closed, Louis senses Harry moving forward, senses the pitchfire of his eyes. Stroking up and down Louis’ body, fixing on the lavender sweater, the candles, the tea neglected on the coffee table.

“That’s my sweater.” Harry says, with a gentle happiness. He usually sounds more excited when he finds Louis wearing his clothes, but maybe the novelty’s worn off. It  _ has _ been a few months, and Louis’ been wearing his clothes a lot.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Louis says, syllables slipping out of his mouth. He feels too sleepy to move.

“And those are my candles.” Harry says, a smile in his voice.

“No  _ shit _ , Sherlock.” Louis repeats, inflecting his voice. He’s too tired for this.

“Don’t be mean, baby.” Harry sighs, kneeling. His face is inches from Louis’, but he doesn’t open his eyes, fearful of what he might see- glowing green eyes, a mouth far too kissable for its provenance. 

“I’m always mean.” Louis mumbles. 

“No, you’re not.” Harry contradicts. He sweeps a large hand over Louis’ hair, thumb smoothing over the shell of his ear. Kisses his forehead, so gentle he could cry.

“If you say so.” Louis murmurs, giving up easily. It’s almost midnight.

“Your birthday’s coming up.” Harry says after a moment.

When Louis doesn’t say anything, Harry continues with: “And so is Christmas.”

“Wow,” Louis says, opening his eyes at last because giving Harry shit is always worth it. “‘S almost like my birthday is close to Christmas or summat.”

“Hey.” Harry protests, folding his body more comfortably to lean against the couch. “I take it back, you are mean.”

“Blah blah whatever.” Louis mumbles, turning and ducking his head in his arms, eyes shuttered. “I don’t care.”

“About your birthday?” Harry asks, voice sounding very close.

“I’m just getting older. Not a big deal.” Louis sighs. “Ugh. Thirties.”

“Oi, I’m almost thirty, don’t call me old.” Harry protests, trying to cheer him up, and Louis shrugs minutely. He’s not that pissed about it, anyway. He’d had his Peter Pan crisis a few years ago, anyway, when he’d turned 28. He’s always looked younger than Harry, anyway, which was a consolation.

“Anyway, should I invite people? Liam? Niall? Zayn?” Harry asks.

“No one’s free this close to Christmas,” Louis yawns. “I’d rather just stay in, the two of us. Open presents on the 25th together and all.”

There’s a long pause, and he can feel Harry smiling. “Okay.” He says, at length. Large hands scoop under his body, hefting him up, and Louis would bite him but he’s  _ sleepy _ .

They fall asleep properly in Harry’s bed, the sheets smelling like lavender and cologne organic oatmeal soap. It’s not as bad as it sounds.

  
  


Christmas comes with little fanfare but much enjoyment, as Louis has always secretly preferred. They send Christmas gifts, trekking out to the nearest post office, and Harry goes into a baking frenzy, whipping up scones and cakes and crumbles and cinnamon rolls and once, a Yule log. The house smells like nutmeg, Yuletide spice breathing crisply from every corner, every fleur-de-lis on every paneled wall, every seam between every floorboard.

Hot chocolate is the aperitif of the season, and Louis accepts it with sullen grace, sighing as Harry puts away his tea in favor of chocolate. Harry’s too good for the powdered mix, apparently, and mixes up some homemade recipe with real chocolate, the posh bastard. It’s good, fragrant with spice and so thick you could stand a spoon in it, the perfect vessel for cream and marshmallows. 

When one is obnoxiously rich as they and most of their acquaintances are, the expense of the present becomes secondary to the thought behind it. It becomes almost about  _ winning _ , a good-natured competition to see who could be most intuitive, most ingenious, most thoughtful.

Zayn doesn’t really celebrate Christmas religiously- although, neither do any of them, really - but he and Gigi do celebrate it in the most American of ways, all Christmas trees and food and Bing Crosby. 

He sends Zayn a vintage signed Michael Jackson vinyl and a jumper that says  _ I’m British And Don’t You Forget It. _ For Gigi, he consults Lottie, as usual, and sends what is apparently  _ the _ new thing in beauty. For Khai, he racks his brain for what he sent when Freddie was two, and sends adorable outfits, blue and striped. 

Louis debates over what to send Lara. He thinks of Pablo Neruda, but it seems unbelievably rude, given that she’d once had to save her money for a year just to be able to pay her rent and give her father a volume of his poetry. It would seem like bragging, like  _ Look how rich I am. _ Louis winces at the thought. In the end, he sends her a parcel of good chocolate and a thick cashmere jumper in her favorite color, turquoise.  _ Merry Christmas, or Nochebuena _ he writes.  _ Hope you and your family are well.  _

For Freddie, he obtains- through significant difficulty - a limited edition Black Widow figurine with Scarlett Johansson’s signature (as  _ Natasha _ ). He ships it to America along with a large box of Freddie’s favorite sweets from when he visits- Cadbury Creme Eggs - and a Wonder-Woman inspired costume to his measurements. 

For Briana, he once again consults Lottie. Gleefully, Lottie directs him to different shopping sites over the phone ( _ I can’t wait to see her face. How do you like Clinique, bitch? _ ) and he orders dutifully, wrapping it crisply and sending it off. 

Liam’s easy enough to shop for; Louis mails his gift along with Maya’s and Bear’s, although he knows Bear won’t receive it until later. He and Liam are united in the fact that they don’t live with their sons.

Niall is a bit trickier, but Louis ends up purchasing a homemade beer-making kit, an exorbitant certificate for the Cheesecake Factory, and a humongous blanket emblazoned with his face (The Horan Afghan). 

He sends gifts to Stan and Oli and Cal and the mates, tickets to the Man U match and their favorite chocolates. 

For Lottie, he sends a vintage pashmina that had once belonged to a tsarina, according to the proprietor of the shop. It’s silken and fine, the colors undulled by age and smelling of old roses and dust. She’s been spending time in America lately, so Louis sends a parcel of Curly Wurly’s and Cadbury Flakes and good Yorkshire tea along with it. 

Daisy and Phoebe are a bit harder to shop for. They don’t need makeup- Lottie’ll have sent them makeup already - and they’re “over” matching outfits. He ends up going to the same vintage shop and finding chic 60’s clothing, not  _ matching _ but subtly coordinated, which he sends along with several true crime books (Daisy loves mysteries) and an assortment of expensive baking mixes (Phoebe loves the process of baking but her cakes are always exploding in the oven; she relies on boxed mixes these days).

Ernie and Dory are easy; he sends them sweets and board games and thickly knit jumpers. For Dan there’s books; he enjoys thrillers and zwieback. 

And then there’s Harry. It’s a bit hard, because they’re living in the same house and Harry abandons all morals when it comes to Christmas presents, sneaking through doors and filching parcels from the postman. Once, in 2013, Louis had caught him  _ sniffing _ a box to figure out what it was.

They spend the days leading up to Christmas in a strange Cold War, sneaking boxes in under their clothing and slipping out of bed to wrap presents in the dead of night. 

Louis hides his presents for Harry, along with Anne’s, Gemma’s, Nick’s, and the boxes from the other friends that Harry’s accumulated (Harry has far too many friends, more than Louis can comprehend) in the attic, hidden underneath a cabal of loose floorboards.

He catches Harry sneaking around in between batches of cannoli, searching for the hiding place. He appears to be tapping walls to see if they’re hollow.

“Don’t even try it.” Louis warns, leaning against a bannister. Harry straightens, smiling winsomely. “You’re not going to guess my hiding place, don’t bother.” Louis continues, poking him. 

“And I think the third batch is ready,” He adds, an afterthought. “Isn’t that the timer?”

Harry pales and scampers down the stairs to the kitchen, cursing.

  
  
  


“You’re so domestic, oh my God.” Niall says when Louis picks up the phone. “Harry’s been texting me pictures of the cannoli.”

Louis grins, sinking down on the nearest seat, which turned out to be the piano bench. “Jealous, Nialler?”

“What, of the cannoli? No.” Niall lies. “You filthy liar, you.” Louis sing-songs, playing an absentminded sonata on the piano, phone caught in between the brace of his shoulder and ear. “You’re jealous of my cannoli, and the scones, and the cinnamon rolls, and the homemade ice cream, and the hot chocolate-”

“ _ Stop _ .” Niall begs. He sounds sick with longing. “Mum’s great at roasts but she can’t make a pastry for the life of her. Have mercy.”

“And the tiramisu, and the spumoni-” Louis sings, humming it along to the sound of  [ Beethoven’s Sonata No. 28 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n74kKqwWViU) . 

“ _ Spumoni _ ?” Niall exclaims, diverted. “Oi, Harry’s making a lot of Italian sweets, isn’t he?”

“Suppose so.” Louis says, indifferent. His brow furrows over a difficult selection of notes, the delicate tines of piano striking him mercilessly. There are no words to describe the way a piano sounds, he thinks, only impressions- a pool of mildewed rainwater, moonlight in cupped hands, the chirring of chatter in a crowded restaurant, wine in a glassy flute. 

“Can you ask him to ship some over?” Niall asks, hopefully.  [ Louis raises a brow, fingers moving trickily over an arpeggio. Piano was something he’d picked up again during the hiatus. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yslrb52Di5w)

“To Ireland?”

“Duh.” Niall says, inflecting the word with all the delicacy of a thirteen year old girl. Louis makes a face, stabbing at the keys more aggressively. “Not to be rude, Nialler, but Harry made the spumoni for  _ me _ , not you. ‘Sides, we’ve polished off the lot.”

“You’ll be fat by Boxing Day.” Niall pronounces with aggressive cheer, as if he’s trying to convince himself that the lack of spumoni is, in fact, something to be thankful for. His words echo ominously.

“How  _ dare _ you.” Louis says emotionlessly, fingers moving faster, faster, faster on the keys, notes fluttering and shaking off the dust on their wings, bursting forth into startling feathered flight. 

“Harry!” Louis calls, nudging the phone on the elegant ledge of the music rack. “ _ Harry _ -”

There’s a thumping noise, and then Harry opens the door, befrilled apron carrying in the smells of the kitchen. 

Louis turns. He’s newly outfitted in flour, Louis notes; it’s dusting his jawline, the pink apron he’s wearing, and his curls.

“Busy, were you?” Louis raises a brow. Harry shrugs, raking a hand through his curls and then freezing- his hands are floured as well, practically caked in it. “Shit.”

Louis laughs, the motions of his finger slowing and shifting into  [ _ How To Save A Life _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yslrb52Di5w) _.  _ Harry’s eyes fall to his fingers, pink mouth curling into a soft, fond smile. He looks far too sweet, smiling like that.

Louis coughs, and Harry’s eyes drift to meet his eyes, caught out but not embarrassed. “Um,” Harry says, blinking. “The focaccia’s in the oven, so no, I’m not busy.”

“Good,” Louis says, turning back to the piano and playing with more vigor, “Because Niall’s just called me  _ fat _ .”

Harry’s eyebrows rise, and from the music rack Niall makes a series of exasperated noises. He’s not on speakerphone, and his voice is tinny, thin.  _ I didn’t call you fat, I said you might gain weight- _

“You said- and I’m quoting -  _ You’ll be fat by Boxing Day _ .” Louis snaps, fingers stilling. He snatches the phone and sets it to speaker with a jab of his finger. 

“Well,” Niall says, voice infinitely clearer, “Hate to say it, but ‘s not like you’re  _ skinny _ , exactly-”

“Oi,” Harry interrupts, crossing his arms. “Louis is perfect just the way he is.” His eyes fall to Louis’  [ arse ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinsons+bum&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk02Kd5s4g34J05O68IHlRRvyb2N6wA:1612660995201&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiC_ouuztbuAhVBCM0KHfV_DjYQ_AUoAXoECBUQAw&biw=1539&bih=871#imgrc=8GloGNSNiGXFmM) . Indignantly, Louis leaps to his feet, whacking Harry soundly. 

“Eyes off me arse, thanks.” Louis snaps. Over the phone, Niall appears to be cracking up. “Honestly, Harry. You’ve fucked models.”

“Not any with a bum like yours.” Harry says, shamelessly. Louis whacks him again. “I’ll call you back, Niall.”

“Don’t bother,” Niall cackles. Louis hangs up.

On the 24th, Harry bakes him a cake. It’s chocolate, so rich that Louis shivers when he swallows a forkful. He’s frosted it thickly, luxuriously, writing  _ Happy Louis Day _ on the creamy swirls. “Thank you, love.” Louis smiles, finishing the last bite.

“Do you want to open presents now, or?” Harry asks, tilting his head. His curls- they’re different than they were a decade ago, looser - flop to one side. Once upon a time he would’ve known the answer to that question without asking. Louis  _ aches _ .

“Eh,” Louis shrugs, licking a stray smear of frosting off of his ring finger, angling his hand for better access. He swallows. “I can open my presents on Christmas Day like everyone else.”

“You’re  _ not _ everyone else,” Harry protests, laughing, and Louis smiles, flicks an imaginary piece of lint off of his shoulder. 

They spend the day curled up in each other, sprawled on the porchside daybed, all sun and cushions that smell like rain, [_Maybe Tomorrow_](https://twitter.com/Louis_Tomlinson/status/1355935053117870087) [by the Stereophonics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2q9_ZEtuTR8) playing from the speakers, husky and salt-weathered. 

It’s one of his better birthdays.

  
  


They pile their gifts at the feet of the tree (half-heartedly decorated) and on Christmas Day, the house exhaling the smell of cinnamon and bacon, they open every one. 

Harry gives him  [ a crewneck jumper in pale blue,  _ Harry _ embroidered on the fabric in neat red print ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+gray+blue+sweater&sxsrf=ALeKk00dzcUYAnSBVnlHpLdoUQ_rRM6pbA:1612674862937&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwihtN-CgtfuAhWOrZ4KHY3JDO0Q_AUoAXoECBAQAw&biw=1310&bih=716#imgrc=hXLg2Px4JoW-VM) . Louis stares at it, ignoring the slow curl of heat in his stomach at the thought of wearing it, and doubles over in laughter.

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Louis chokes out, a hand patting Harry on the shoulder. “Nice try, pal- oh,  _ shit _ , really?” The words burst from him involuntarily as he unearths the next present-  [ another jumper, this time a heathered gray, with “ _ lol ur not harry styles _ ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+gray+blue+sweater&sxsrf=ALeKk00dzcUYAnSBVnlHpLdoUQ_rRM6pbA:1612674862937&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwihtN-CgtfuAhWOrZ4KHY3JDO0Q_AUoAXoECBAQAw&biw=1310&bih=716#imgrc=hXLg2Px4JoW-VM) ” printed on the front. 

“You’re  _ really _ into me wearing things with your name on it, aren’t you.” Louis says, voice dipping low. It’s not a question.

Harry observes him, eyes unabashedly drawing him in. “You know it, sweetheart.”

“Fine,” Louis sighs, wriggling out of  [ his Christmas jumper ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+christmas+jumper&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwjlzLuxg9fuAhXBgZ4KHQBnDCoQ2-cCegQIABAA&oq=harry+styles+christmas+jumper&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQAzICCAAyBAgAEBg6BggAEAcQHjoICAAQCBAHEB5QtJkBWPGkAWDGpQFoAHAAeACAAWyIAcYHkgEEMTAuMpgBAKABAaoBC2d3cy13aXotaW1nwAEB&sclient=img&ei=nXgfYKWKFcGD-gSAzrHQAg&bih=716&biw=1310#imgrc=iPpDrAUpxJsL5M) , which happens to also be Harry’s. It clings to his shirt, riding up and exposing the warm skin of his belly to the cold; Harry’s eyes track that, too. Louis shivers, and it’s only partly because of the chill.

“Aha,” Harry says, satisfied, when Louis tugs the “ _ lol ur not harry styles _ ” sweatshirt over his head. There’s something faintly disappointed in his expression, though, and Louis laughs under his breath, leaning over and patting him on the head. 

“I’ll wear the other one if you’re good.” He promises, and Harry’s eyes darken, the tang of desire wavering from his dilating pupils. Louis laughs again, and it comes out of him husky, tainted with the same dusky infection that’s snared Harry in its depths.

“I’ll be good.” Harry tells him in return, muscles shifting under his skin. It’s freezing and he’s in a shirt, arms bare and free of goosebumps.  _ You gonna be a good boy for me _ ? Louis almost wants to say, but that would be too true, plucking a note in both of them that’s not ready to be touched yet.

“Aw, you promise?” Louis drawls instead, saccharine and mocking, cupping his face briefly, fingers skating along his jawline. Harry huffs a laugh, strained.

“Open your presents.” Harry says at length, averting his eyes like it hurts to look.

Louis says nothing, returning to his pile of presents. Harry’s gotten him something else, and Louis prays it isn’t a jersey with Harry’s name on it; he isn’t sure they could handle it. The cloaking weight of it on his shoulders, Harry’s name a brand on his back, Harry’s eyes alive with want. He shivers the premonition from his skin, ducking his chin down and focusing on tearing open the wrapping.

Louis catches his breath, eyes widening.  [ Sex Pistols. God Save The Queen. Vinyl. ](https://thevinylfactory.com/news/one-of-the-rarest-punk-records-in-the-world-has-appeared-on-discogs/)

* * *

  
_  
Interlude: 2010  
_  


“Do you think we’re going to make it, then?” Harry asks him, softly. Louis glances at him, feeling out-of-place fondness well in his chest, a ceaseless urge to put his hands on this boy- but delicately, reverently, as if he was touching finest china, wanting to skim his hands lightly over rarefied art. 

“Course we are.” Louis says after a moment, confidently. “No question about it, lad.”

Harry turns his face up, green eyes and a mop of curls. “But-”

“No buts,” Louis says firmly. “We’ve got-  _ it _ , whatever the X Factor is, we’ve got it. All five of us.”

“Aiden’s really good.” Harry says quietly, picking at a loose thread in the bedspread. Louis sighs, flopping closer. They’re sprawled together on Harry’s bedspread, high in the top bunk like an aerie, and it doesn’t feel close enough. 

“Is that why you don’t like him?” Louis asks, poking him gently in the nose. Harry’s lips turn down, pink and sullen. 

“No.” He says by way of explanation, scowling.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Oh, really? C’mon, tell me.” He reaches a hand towards Harry’s belly, tickling along his shirt until Harry lets out a squawk of laughter, curling into his side like a pillbug. “Uncle! Uncle.” Harry gasps out, and Louis relaxes, waggling his brows. “So? Spill.”

Harry shrugs, biting his lip. “I dunno. Just. You’re really, like. Close with him. Aren’t you?” 

Louis stares. Harry’s  _ jealous _ . A slow heat swirls in his belly, the ache of wanting things he’s not supposed to.

“Not as close as I am with you, Curly.” Louis says instead of  _ jealous? You don’t need to be, I’m all yours _ , which he wants to say.

Harry’s lips tip up, eyes fixed on where he’s fiddling with the loose thread, tying a knot. “Thanks. But, like. Um. If we don’t make it through-”

“Harry-” Louis interrupts, and Harry glances up, sharply. “Let me finish.  _ If _ we don’t make it, what-” He breaks off, ducking down again. “What about us?”

“What about us,” Louis repeats, blankly, and Harry’s head shoots up again, cheeks flushing. “Not, like- I meant the five of us. As a band, like.”

“Oh,” Louis says, nettled. “Well.” He pauses, head tipping back. “Well, we’ll probably get a flat together, won’t we? We’ve got ourselves a few fans already, we could use that. We’d still be popstars, ‘course.”

Harry’s smiling already, a hand sliding over Louis’ mouth (it smells like soap and lavender). “Good.”

They’re silent for a while after that, Louis sliding closer and resting his head against Harry’s collarbones, Harry curling an arm around him and fiddling with his hair. 

“What,” Harry says slowly, “What’s one thing you’ll do if we get rich and famous?”

“ _ When _ ,” Louis corrects. “When, not if.”

Harry rolls his eyes, nudging him, and Louis laughs softly, nuzzling his head into Harry’s shirt. “I’d throw a massive party,” He says, muffled. “With like, a pool, or summat. Waiters. Bikinis. All that.”

“Wanker.” Harry mutters, flicking his ear gently. “No, but like.” He pauses. “Really, though. After all of the practical things, I mean, like giving money to your family- what would you do?”

“Um,” Louis says thoughtfully. “Well. There’s this one vinyl, by the Sex Pistols-” He breaks off as Harry pinches his shoulder, fingers rolling the thin skin sharply. “Ow, fuck off, I’m being serious.”

“Sorry, darling.” Harry says softly. He flushes after he says it, like he didn’t mean to. Louis tries not to react, fingers tightening on Harry’s shirt, teeth sinking into his lip.  _ Darling _ , like he was something to be treasured, as if maybe when Harry looked at him, he felt the same way: like Louis was something miraculous and rare, some lost fabled treasure; found.

“Anyway,” Louis says after a moment, voice strained. “When the Sex Pistols first got signed, the record label kicked them out afterwards, because they were too badly behaved. I think Sid Vicious might’ve banged up a toilet in the studio loo or summat.”

“No,” Harry says, laughing. “Really?”

“God’s truth.” Louis nods into Harry’s chest. “Um, so the record label destroyed a lot of the vinyls with their first single,  _ God Save The Queen _ . And it’s supposed to be the rarest punk vinyl in the  _ world _ . Only nine known original copies, I think. One went for  £13,000, just 4 years ago.”

“And you’d buy it?” Harry guesses. Louis huffs a laugh, nodding. “Yeah. It sounds- stupid, I know, and obviously I’d give money to my mum first, and for my sister’s uni funds, ‘course, but- yeah, if I could, that’s what I’d- yeah.”

“That’s not stupid.” Harry tells him, running a hand through Louis’ hair. He shifts so Louis is laying on him properly, legs tangled together, and Louis knows they can’t really pretend this is entirely platonic now, but he’ll damn well try.

“I’d buy it for you,” Harry says suddenly. “If I could.”

Louis is silent for a while, and then he lifts his head, pecking Harry briefly on the corner of his mouth. His heart’s beating, beating, beating, like a rabbit’s, frightened and frantic, like some flighted thing threatening to burst winged from his chest. 

“Thanks, love.” He murmurs, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“Lou,” Harry says. “Lou. Look at me.”

Stricken, Louis lifts his head, and- Harry’s smiling, green eyes and white teeth. Louis stares, bewitched. 

Tentatively, Harry curls a hand around the nape of Louis’ neck, tugging him closer. Their noses brush, and Louis lets his eyes fall shut, ensnared by the alchemy of breath mingling. The knowledge of what’s to come, his heart urgent and threatening to leap out and away, stomach gone light and almost sick with anticipation.

Their mouths meet, chaste and perfect. Louis leans closer, relaxing slightly, letting their mouths fit together more deeply. 

Harry slides his tongue along Louis’ bottom lip, and Louis shudders in surprise, mouth falling open. Harry licks in, and his mind goes blank, electricity skittering along his veins.

“Lou,” Harry says in between kisses, “Lou.” Religion, sacrosanct words, holy. Louis  _ feels _ holy, newly baptised in desire and glittering with renewed sanctity, every limb something that could be an instrument of pleasure. Church (stiffly starched, sprawling in defiance on the oak pews) has never felt like this. Frankincense in the scent of desire in the air, myrrh in the saliva , gold in Harry’s skin.

Potential in the sliver of skin underneath his fingernail, an ache of want pitting his stomach, making way for fluttering things. He feels like a song, like writing songs and being made into melody all at once. It’s difficult to explain, so he stops trying, focusing on the feel of Harry close to him, mouths pressing together again and again.

They draw apart eventually, smiling. “Do you, um.” Louis says, then breaks off, unsure of how to articulate it. What if- and they were both  _ boys _ , what if Harry didn’t want-

“Yes.” Harry says immediately, and Louis huffs a laugh, warming the hollow of his throat. “You don’t even know what I was going to say, dumbass.”

“I already know it’s a yes.” Harry says; their roles have switched and he is the confident one now, eyes shining with certainty. “Like- anything. Whatever you want. Yes.”

Louis snorts, opening his mouth to say something ridiculous, and Harry’s hand splays over his mouth again, shutting him up quite effectively. 

“No, don’t, Lou.” Harry says, frowning earnestly. He bites at his lip. “I’m serious.”

Slowly, Louis tugs Harry’s hand away. “Okay.” He says, sincerely. Louis tips his chin up, daringly. “Ask me, then.”

It takes Harry a second to get it, but then his eyes light, lovely and spellbinding. “Be my boyfriend, please?” Harry asks, giggling, and Louis squeezes his face, pressing a messy kiss to his cheek. “Of course I will, Hazza.”

“Of  _ course _ ,” Harry echoes softly, testing the word out. He’s so happy, eyes smiling in green slants. “Of  _ course _ .”

* * *

“I didn’t think you remembered,” Louis says eventually. His eyes flick up to meet Harry’s- he’s sitting perfectly still, eyes wary and hands curled into shallow basins. Sweater, soft hair, kitten-tender. Green eyes: enticement. Sweet: dangerous.

“Of course I remembered,” Harry mutters, glancing down. “I- I wanted to buy it for you as soon as we first got money, but there wasn’t a copy available, at the time.”

“As soon as we first got money,” Louis echoes. He raises a brow. “What, 2011? Jesus.”

“I go by Harry,” Harry says, shoulders relaxing. “Just Harry.” He adds, mouth quirking.

“Yer a wizard, Harry,” Louis mocks, catching onto the joke all too quickly. He sighs, setting the vinyl down reverently. “Are you- I mean. Fuck. 2011 was-”

“A long time ago.” Harry finishes, hands fidgeting at his knees. “And I asked Lottie, and she said you didn’t have it yet, and so- it seemed perfect.”

Louis is silent, watching him. He doesn’t know what to  _ say _ . They’d only talked about it  _ once _ , over a  _ decade _ ago, just before their first kiss. 

Louis would’ve thought the events afterwards would’ve overshadowed it, blotted it out distinctly and erased all memory of  _ there’s this one vinyl, by this Sex Pistols _ , but perhaps he’s overestimating things- just a kiss, a first kiss, nothing special. There’d been plenty more, afterwards. 

Slow kisses, lazy ones that lasted ages, pressed up against a cool countertop and forgetting his own name in Harry’s mouth; swift and chaste pecks, just a good-morning. Once, Harry had denied him even that, turning his face away. Once, he’d been heartbroken and terribly silent next to the love of his life, under cold white sheets in a foreign city.

Now, he’s sitting in front of the same boy, a vinyl in his hands and wrapping paper strewn around him like litter, cinnamon and longing in the air.

“Okay,” Louis says, abruptly. “Thank you. I- thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry says, quietly. His lashes screen his eyes, hands curling around his own body, clenching in the fabric of his pants. Louis bites his lip, setting the vinyl down reverently and leaning closer, gripping Harry’s wrists.

“Hey,” He murmurs, slow. “Hey- no, hey. Darling. I’m sorry I reacted- oddly. I just- seeing it took me back to 2010, is all.”

Harry lifts his head, eyes unreadable. “And that’s such a bad thing?”

Louis closes his eyes. “Let’s not do this, Hazza, please.”

“Lou-”

“It’s Christmas.” Louis murmurs, weakly, but it works- Harry huffs a sigh, nodding. 

“Besides,” Louis says after a moment, “You still have presents to open.”

“Oh, gee.” Harry says, mocking, “Presents? For  _ me _ ?” Louis wrinkles his nose, shoving him lightly. “Wanker.”

Harry sticks his tongue out and picks up a parcel, weighing it absently, eyes catching on the tag:  _ for Harry Cox, from Lou Bricant _ . Lou Bricant- it took him a while to come up with that one, he’s quite proud of it.

“Harry Cox,” Harry reads aloud, and Louis collapses in giggles, sprawling on the floor. “You- fuck off, it’s not that funny!” Harry protests, flushing. 

“What,” Louis says through his laughter, “That if you’d taken your mum’s maiden name, your name would sound like ‘hairy cocks’? Because mate, it  _ is _ .”

“Ugh, I hate you,” Harry mutters, sliding a finger under the wrapping and divesting it neatly. “What is- oh,  _ Lou _ .”

It’s a [ pale tee ](https://www.google.com/search?q=friend+of+dorothy+t+shirt&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk03JjnjEKnG7Ckn-N1zWyTZ0vQYqDw:1612751638511&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi2lZiEoNnuAhWNGFkFHRHKBwUQ_AUoAnoECA0QBA&biw=1539&bih=871#imgrc=9_ERqnO-JoeyYM) , one that says  [ _ Friend of Dorothy _ ](https://www.pride.com/identities/2020/7/08/so-what-does-it-mean-be-friend-dorothy) _ , _ and Louis flushes, biting his lip. 

“I just- you can wear a lot of things that I can’t,” Louis says, softly, and maybe that’s too much because Harry flinches, “And I know you wish you could-” He pauses, biting his lip. “Not many people know what  _ friend of Dorothy _ means.” Louis says. “You could probably wear it outside.”

“Thank you.” Harry says, softly. “You could wear it too, you know. Or, like, something like it.”

Louis barks out a laugh, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out so bitter, but it does. “Last time I wore a shirt like that-  [ the Apple one ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinson+gay+apple+t+shirt&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk00dow1t3ErHQzNOr4gOcaBxBeSP2Q:1612751944487&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjqy4uWodnuAhW7MVkFHZJMDbMQ_AUoAXoECBIQAw&biw=1539&bih=871#imgrc=EUGGkthZsFX-3M) , I think you remember - you know what happened. So.”

“Louis,” Harry says, firmly. “You can wear what you want.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Well, if  _ you _ say it’s alright-”

“No,” Harry inserts, upset now, “No, I mean. They can’t fucking control what you wear on a grocery run, fuck.”

“No, they can’t.” Louis says, pausing. “But. If I do- you know how the fans are, they’re like the Mafia, they tracked it down  [ when you wore my sweatshirt ](https://non-binharry.tumblr.com/post/639694591114805248/asiawhat-is-the-umbro-shirt-i-feel-like) that one time, it’ll just be- a mess.”

“And what if it’s  _ worth _ it?” Harry says, biting his lip.

“What, so I can wear a T-shirt?” Louis laughs, mirthless. “No, love, it’s alright. You can keep your title as quirkiest dresser in One D.”

“Thanks, that means a lot.” Harry says after a moment, and Louis relaxes- he’s dropping it.

Louis’ also gotten him [ a jumper ](https://www.google.com/search?q=shaggy+pom+pom+sweater&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk02dyZJTjt2S6AW5w3o0yTsWKFpzeg:1612807482574&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi-ytuI8NruAhV0ITQIHVsECaMQ_AUoAnoECBIQBA&biw=1539&bih=871#imgrc=B_RDWQhixtiLFM) , shaggy and colorful and utterly hideous in the way that a great portion of Harry’s clothes  _ are _ . A virulently bright fringe of hot pink sweeps around the collar; various progressively more palatable shades of pink come after it, boldly segmented by one layer of navy blue. It doesn’t have any buttons, meant to be casually thrown around the shoulders as a statement- what else would it be, honestly.

“I  _ love _ it,” Harry says delightedly. “I’ll wear it on tour.”

“ _ No _ ,” Louis protests, automatically. Harry casts him a pouty look, and, faced with Harry’s puppy-eyes, Louis surrenders. “Well, I mean- you could reconsider, is all. Who knows what Cazza’ll cook up for us?”

“Nothing better than this, that’s for sure.” Harry pronounces, and Louis has to admit he’s right. 

Louis lights up, remembering something. “Hang on. Don’t move.” He gets to his feet, vaulting up a flight of stairs and skidding into his bedroom, diving into his sock drawer and fumbling the box out. He slides down the railing and nearly falls off, trotting towards Harry and sinking to sit down, extending the box. It’s neatly wrapped, in  [ wrapping paper designed to resemble a vagina ](https://www.etsy.com/listing/876554823/gift-wrapping-paper-vulvarines-gift?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=vagina+wrapping+paper&ref=sr_gallery-1-2&organic_search_click=1) , which Louis thought Harry would appreciate.

Harry looks at it in vague surprise, gaze flitting up to catch Louis’ eyes. He looks so fucking sweet when unwrapping presents, this boy, mouth bitten in anticipation, eyes wide and shimmeringly, ecstatically green.

“You- Lou,” Harry falters, hands stilling over the velvet box, small and weighty. He flicks a glance upwards, and Louis rolls his eyes, leaning back on his elbows and cocking a leg up. “Don’t faint, love, I’m hardly proposing. Go on, open it.”

Face downturned, Harry divests the box of the remaining wrapping paper, a finger sliding under the catch and propping it up, swinging the box open. His throat catches on an inhale.

A weighty signet  [ ring ](https://www.etsy.com/listing/801185894/snake-anchor-ring-10k14k18k-white-yellow?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=&ref=sr_gallery-1-6&frs=1) , all heavy silver and gothic engraving. There’s an anchor carved on it, solid and sinuate and obvious. It’s ostentatious and showy and exactly the sort of thing Harry loves, the gleaming curves anfractuous and attention-grabbing.

Still, Harry doesn’t smile, eyes fixed on the ring as if it’ll vanish the second he looks away. His mouth is still parted, the ring held immobile in his hand.

Louis coughs. “Um. D’you- d’you like it, then?”

Harry isn’t fucking  _ breathing _ .

“Harry.” Louis tries, and at the lack of a reaction, he snaps. “ _ Harry Edward Kermit James Potter _ -”

“Not my name.” Harry interrupts, a smile quirking his lips at last. He lowers his hand, the ring disappearing in the curl of his fist. Louis raises a brow. “Got your attention, didn’t it?”

Harry is unusually silent after that, slipping the ring on his middle finger and twisting it absently. His gaze keeps getting caught on the pattern, the anchor, a thumb rubbing it relentlessly.

It’s probably nothing.

  
  
  


After Christmas comes rehearsals. They’ve re-hired Paul Roberts, and he is a  _ sadist _ , forcing them to do practice the fucking choreography until Louis could probably do it in his sleep. Louis exchanges a glance with Niall, mouthing  _ I brought glitter bombs _ .

Niall’s eyes light up, and when Paul calls for a water break they move towards the bleachers, Louis quickening his pace-

“ _ Louis Tomlinson _ .” Paul barks, and Louis groans, loud and aggravated, shoulders slumping. “What is it, Paul.” He says, without turning around.

“If you think you’re getting within a foot of your bag, you’re out of your goddamned mind. You owe me five minutes more, come on.”

This is why Louis didn’t want to hire him, honestly- he knows them too well, used to their diversion tactics by now.

“It’s almost like you resent us.” Louis grumbles, wheeling around and trotting back to the demarcated floor. He stands belligerently on his mark, masking tape in a wide X shape on the floor.

Paul laughs. “Who do you think I talk to my therapist about, huh?  _ Years _ of abuse I suffered from you lads.”

“What,” Louis spits incredulously, gesturing wildly at himself- loose tank top almost soaked through with sweat, exhausted and worn out, “Like it’s not fookin’  _ mutual _ ?”

Paul sighs pityingly, clapping his hands together to call the boys back from their water break. “It’s only as hard as you make it, Lou.”

Louis rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. Harry’s twirling towards Paul, pirouetting clumsily, and Niall’s wiggling his brows behind Paul’s back, hefting a glitter bomb. With effort, Louis keeps his face still and composed.

“What,” Louis deadpans, eyes carefully tracking Niall’s movements, “The fuck. Let me guess: if I concentrate on  _ being in the present moment _ , I will learn to savour the beauty of the world around me-”

“You know,” Harry interrupts indignantly, “Mindfulness is actually really helpful, it helped me a lot during the pandemic-”

“ _ Now _ !” Niall yells, and [ the glitter bomb ](https://pranksanonymous.com/product/glitter-bomb/) sails over their heads, cylindrical and innocuous but oh-so-deadly. A smile splits his mouth; he leaps up, tired muscles protesting, and seizes it, fingers closing around it- gently, so as not to agitate the mechanism.

Paul’s face contorts in horror, Harry’s face widening comically. Liam’s behind them all, talking to Maya on the phone by the water fountains.

Louis tosses the glitter bomb at Paul. It hits his skin, and Niall cackles as the glitter envelops them, Paul yelling and Harry letting out a high-pitched noise of surprise. 

“I nabbed the lot!” Niall yells, running up and dumping a cascade of glitter bombs into his arms. Louis whistles cheerfully, lobbing three glitter bombs at Harry and Paul in quick succession.

“You see,” Louis says serenely, watching as Paul tries in vain to scrub away the glitter from his skin- really, he’s only been dealing with them for what, a decade? Shouldn’t he be  _ well aware _ that glitter is hardly so easily removed? - and idly throwing in another, “The first thing you should’ve learned is to keep eyes on all four of us, at all times. You’re losing your touch, old man.”

“Louis  _ Tomlinson _ .” Paul starts. HIs next words are swallowed in a torrent of glitter.

  
  


Rehearsals proceed as they always do- grudging, teeth-grittingly, every inch of his body aching with a familiar pain, and then all at once, the days falling in a furl of pale skies and warm tea, sweat and endless loops of  _ What Makes You Beautiful _ .

Harry manages not to get papped leaving the house, thank Christ. The last thing they need is more Larry coverage. There’s plenty of “ _ tour rehearsal! :))) _ ” selfies for Niall to post on his Instagram- one of Louis riding Harry’s back, cheerfully and blithely covering Harry’s eyes with a hand; another of them all smiling painfully for the camera; a still shot of Louis laughing at something Zayn’s saying, head tipped back and a water bottle held motionlessly in one hand. (Predictably, the fans go batshit about the Zayn picture. “It’s these looks,” Zayn says loftily, pouting his lips. Louis snickers and plants a showy kiss on his mouth, completely and totally aware of Harry’s eyes scorching his back.)

“Hey,” Niall says, cheerfully. “Looks like we might not botch this after all, eh?”

“Speak for yourself.” Zayn says, fingers elegant on a wedge of lime. He’s sucking at it, eyes unfocused and dreamy. Thinking of Gigi, no doubt. 

They’re day-drinking. Rehearsals are almost over- a few more days, and they’ll be done and dusted. Tour’s coming up, fuck. They have a performance at Madison Square Garden in a few weeks, their first concert post-reunion.  _ Fuck _ .

“You’ll be here for the MSG gig, yeah?” Louis says suddenly, plucking the lime from Zayn’s mouth and biting into it shamelessly. Harry’s eyes narrow, and Zayn raises an unimpressed brow, raising his hand for another tequila. “ _ Must _ you?” 

“Posh, aren’t you.” Louis mocks, resting his head on his palm. The world’s gone spinny and thick with indulgence, trim walls and furnishings all melting into one another.

“I’ll be there for MSG, yeah.” Zayn says belatedly, knocking back another glass. “It’s the first show on the road, idiot. ‘Course I’ll be there. Just don’t get used to it.”

“See,” Louis sighs, sprawling back in the booth. “That’s what I love abou’ ya, Z.”

“What, my personality?” Zayn asks, snorting on an inhale of tequila. He grimaces.

“Yeah, ‘xactly,” Louis mumbles, fingers curling around a longneck. He lifts it to his lips, tongue sliding along the rim. “Them cheekbones of yours are just a bonus, love.”

“I’m getting another round.” Harry says abruptly, getting to his feet. He’s gone in seconds, pushing through the thin throng of patrons seeding the bar. 

Zayn laughs, sipping more tequila. “Your boy’s green-eyed, Lou.”

“He’s always green-eyed; his eyes are green.” Louis murmurs, eyes tracking him. He blinks, meeting Zayn’s amused eyes. “And he’s not my boy.” 

“Does he know that?” Zayn smirks, and Niall guffaws, face puce with alcohol and laughter. “No, he doesn’t.” Niall chokes out, nudging Liam. “They’re so fecking stupid, Christ.”

“Who, Lou and H?” Liam clarifies, nudging his shoulders closer. At Niall’s nod, he sighs, beleaguered. “Mate, you’ve no idea. I went to take a piss, right, and I pop into them  _ inches  _ away from each other, like they’re in some sort of romantic drama-”

“He had  _ leaves  _ in his hair.” Louis snarls, slapping a hand on the table for emphasis. The world blurs, and he blinks, heavy-eyed, trying to locate his thoughts. “And- I was- getting them out, yeah. Shut up, Liam.”

“And how the  _ hell _ ,” Liam hisses, leaning forward, “Did he  _ get _ leaves in his hair? You’re inside a  _ building, in the middle of goddamn March. There are no leaves _ . Just casually breaking the laws of nature, aren’t you?”

Louis opens his mouth, and then closes it, because he doesn’t actually have anything to say to that. There  _ had _ been leaves. Definitely. Absolutely. But where had they come from?

“I’m back!” Harry says cheerily, sliding in next to Louis. Their shoulders brush. Louis stiffens, eyes widening. 

Niall guffaws again, laughing so hard he falls out of his seat.

  
  
  
  
  


“Madison Square Garden is in a week.” Louis says into the pillow. The night is cool behind his lids, Harry warming his side. His words are muffled in the scent of laundry and sleep.

There’s a long moment, and then Harry rolls onto his side, eyes intent. “What’s wrong, Lou?”

Louis pushes his face further into the pillow. “I- nothing.”

Harry’s hands find the inward dip of his waist. “ _ Lou _ . What’s wrong?”

“ _ MSG is in a week _ .” Louis repeats, biting his lip.

Pause. 

“We’ve played The Garden before.” Harry says, nonplussed. “We’ve literally played almost every arena there is, why-”

“Yeah,” Louis interrupts, tired, “But this is our first concert since- since the reunion. What if we completely fuck things up- what if this isn’t a good idea, H?”

Harry sighs, scooting closer, and Louis yawns, abandons the pillow, and curls into Harry’s warmth. A hand strokes down his back.

“We won’t fuck things up,” Harry says at last, voice rumbling low. “We’ve always been better together, you know that.”

“I’m so nervous.” Louis whispers into Harry’s throat, the only person on earth he’d be so vulnerable with. 

A kiss pressed to his forehead. “I know, baby. But when you get out there, you’re going to smash it. All of us will, and tour’s going to be amazing. Okay?”

“Okay.” Louis murmurs.

Sleep.

  
  
  
  


“Hello?” Louis says into the phone, squinting. He’s packing for the flight to New York- bit too late, if he’s honest. He pulls it away from his ear, scanning the contact ID. It’s Liam.

“Hey, mate.” Liam says, sounding odd. Louis blinks at the phone.

“Is there a reason you’re calling, then?”

“Oh! Erm.” Liam says. Coughs. “Yes. I mean, obviously, there’s a reason I called.”

“Well then, better get to it.” Louis snaps, exasperated.

“I’m…. worried about you.” Liam says slowly, and Louis rolls his eyes, sighing. “If this is about Harry again, you can shove off-”

“ _ No _ !” Liam yelps. “No, nope, nothing to do with that. No, erm, I’m worried about your- your dogs.”

“What.” Louis says blankly. “You-  _ what _ ?”

“I’m worried they’re not getting enough exercise.” Liam says, shiftily.

“They have two people in this house who regularly walk them,” Louis says, slowly. “I think they’re fine.”

“You- wait, two people?” Liam says, confused. Louis squints at the phone. 

“Oh, did you not know? Could’ve sworn I’d told you, we’ve been living together since-”

“Oh! Right.” Liam exclaims, sounding desperate. “Right, right, right, Eleanor’s staying with you.”

Louis blinks at the phone, utterly confused. “What the fuck? Why would-”

“ _ Louis _ ,” Liam hisses. “ _ Where do you think I am _ .”

Louis tilts his head, thinking. Liam’s in LA, and he has a flight tomorrow. Tickets are sold out, of course they are, so there wasn’t any more promo to do. He knows Liam gets restless, though, so his manager had scheduled some more-

_ Fuck _ . Call or Delete.

“ _ Right _ ,” Louis says, frantically. “No, sorry, I was just, erm, confused. I’ve been living with El for ages now, ‘s weird that you didn’t know.”

Liam lets out a weird, donkey-laugh. “You know me, always forgetting the details.”

Louis swallows. Liam has never, not even once, forgotten a single detail. “Yep. Forgetful Liam. Anyway, I ‘ave- something to do, so if ya don’t mind-”

“Right!” Liam says frantically. “No, yeah, bye!”

Louis hangs up.

  
  


_ ruth-loves-larry: _

_ I don’t even know what the hell happened during that Call Or Delete, but I can sure guess: _

_ Liam called Louis and Louis didn’t realise it was live and so he accidentally spilled that he was living with two people, one of which was NOT Eleanor. I swear to God there is nothing funnier than Liam going “Right, Eleanor’s staying with you.” and Louis replying with “what the fuck”. Lmao. _

_#larry proof_ _#elounor is fake_ _#larry is literally real_ _#“what the fuck?”_

_ 151,320 notes _

  
  


“This is  _ bad _ .” Louis hisses, pacing. Harry stares at him. “It’s so obvious. Fuck.”

Harry’s curled on the couch, worn joggers and a  [ candy-pink shirt ](https://www.google.com/search?q=gucci+pink+shirt+harry+styles&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk00u5dDFUzkoKniS5FttA-sgqyKvtw:1612457913638&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjGjpjp2dDuAhXMi54KHdehAwwQ_AUoAnoECBQQBA&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=pw3h5Ns2hU0ZkM) , hair loose and unstyled. They’re leaving for New York tonight, on a red-eye, and the suitcases are propped by the door.

“Louis.” Harry glances up again, jaw flexing. “I’m- I know we’ve had this conversation before, God, more times than I can count, but I-” He pauses, fingers tightening on the cotton of his joggers.

“But?” Louis prompts, brow arching. He fixes his gaze to Harry, watches the wild green bloom of his eyes.

“ _ But _ ,” Harry repeats, raking a hand through his hair, “I don’t see why it’s a problem. You- you want to be out, I know you do, unless it- has it changed?”

Louis watches him, eyes flinty. “No,” He says deliberately. “No, that hasn’t changed.”

Harry stands, explosive in movement. “Then I- fuck, I don’t understand. You want to be out, but you don’t want people to guess? You’re bisexual, it’s not some sort of crime-”

“I don’t need you to tell me my sexuality is valid.” Louis snaps, leaning against the counter. “Fuck you.”

“I- I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry starts, apologetic, but Louis cuts him off.

“You’re so fookin’ arrogant,” Louis hisses, fisting his hands, nails cutting into his palms. “Jesus Christ,  _ baby _ .” He tosses out the endearment like weaponry, reading the minute individual categories of hurt in Harry’s face. Macharomancy. 

“Lou,” Harry whispers, and Louis stalks forward. “Don’t- don’t  _ do _ that, don’t play the victim, fuck’s sake,  _ baby _ . I hate it when you call me that, you know, because you do- you do this thing, where you assume loving you doesn’t hurt as badly as loving me does for you- it does, Christ, it does. You fuck. The way you hurt me every time you call me that; we couldn’t write songs about it.”

Harry’s bloodless and standing. Something Louis’ always wondered sinks to the forefront of his mind: where does the blood go? He imagines flushed fingers, flushed hip-bones, flushed ankles, the blood darting like lemmings away from the face. Flying.

“You want me, you’ve always wanted me, and you want people to know that I’m yours but you don’t want people to know about us, you hypocrite. I’ve always been yours, you  _ know _ that, but it isn’t  _ enough _ for you, is it, people have to  _ guess _ but they can’t know for certain-”

“Louis,” Harry breaks, “Lou, no, that’s-”

“You two-faced  _ coward _ ,” Louis hisses, eyes like slits cut into blue-backed paper, “You don’t want to come out of the closet but you wanna nudge me out little by little. How fucking cowardly is that? You’re never going to fight for us, never going to stand up to those goddamn bastards and say  _ no _ . Never going to hold my hand in public, baby. But you’ll tease me and smile at me and wear lace to fluster me. Isn’t that right?”

Harry's white-faced, fingers flexing in the air. He’s  _ said _ it, the words crackling between them and breaking whatever peace they’ve managed to hold between them, fracturing those long nights curled up in each other’s arms, laughter and love and longing.

“ _ Fuck _ .” Louis whispers, shrinking away. He turns, wild with anger and horror, ducking to grab his suitcase and keys. He’s gone before Harry can call him back.

  
  
  
  
  


He finds his way to the airport easily enough, hailing a cab and sliding into the backseat. He gets to the airport remarkably early, aviators and a hoodie veiling his face. 

**Private Message: Zayn**

Louis:  _ so i might’ve fucked some things up btw _

Louis:  _ just a heads up _

Zayn:  _ what the fuck did you do. _

Louis:  _ got into a fight w/ h, probably won’t be talking to him for a bit _

Zayn:  _ ….. _

Zayn:  _ unsure whether to be horrified or impressed  _

Zayn:  _ start from the beginning, mate. _

Louis:  _ erm so did you hear about the call or delete fiasco _

Zayn:  _ lol who hasn’t it’s all over tumblr _

Louis:  _ oops forgot i was talking to a larry stylinson blogger sry _

Zayn:  _ fucks sake _

Zayn:  _ it’s barely even a blog i just reblog shit _

Louis:  _ wait seriously _

Louis:  _ you ACTUALLY have a larry blog what the hell _

Zayn:  _ that’s not important, back to what u were saying _

Louis:  _ fine i’ll bother you about it later _

Louis:  _ anyway we had a fight about the call or delete shitshow. _

Zayn:  _ “we had a fight” what the hell that doesn’t answer any questions _

Zayn:  _ anyway, you better fix it b4 msg  _

Louis:  _ hell no i’m not talking to him _

Zayn:  _ then i hope you’re prepared to act like the sun shines out of his goddamn arse during the show… the fans have eyes yk _ .

Louis:  _ wouldn’t it be better if everyone thought we were still feuding?? _

Zayn:  _ lol no what a surefire way to get “one direction: OVER AGAIN?” in the headlines _

Louis:  _ i see what you did there _

Louis:  _ “over again” very clever _

Louis:  _ anyway it’s fine i’ll just smile at him a few times and they won’t notice _

Zayn:  [IMG.20311]

Louis:  _ is that… your tumblr? _

Zayn:  _ nah it’s this rlly prominent larry blog run by this girl named ruth but anyway literally everyone is expecting to get “larry content” out of the msg show _

Zayn:  _ they’re going to fucking notice if you don’t talk _

Zayn:  _ so FIX IT. _

“Tommo!” Niall exclaims, jumping into his arms. Louis hefts him up, groping his arse absentmindedly. Niall cackles, patting his shoulder. “Handsy, aren’t ya.”

Niall glances behind him, frowning. “Where’s H?”

Louis shrugs. “Why should I know?”

Niall’s eyes widen. “What- oh, hell. Did you two have a falling-out?”

Louis shrugs. 

“Fuck.” Niall says, blankly.

  
  


“You caught a different  _ flight _ from him?” Liam says, incredulously. Louis throws a piece of lint at him, scowling. They’re backstage, preparing for soundcheck. He’s been successfully ignoring Harry for days. It’s fine.

“Well, I wasn’t about to  _ sit next _ to him during a seven hour flight.” Louis hisses, glancing behind him to check that Harry hasn’t heard. Harry’s curled up on the couch, fiddling absently with his hair; he glances up, meeting Louis’ eyes. Louis tears his glance away, flushing.

“Seriously, you need to make up with him.” Liam says, lowly. He’s biting his lip, looking worried. “If you don’t, the show’ll be  _ awful _ .”

“Ye of little faith.” Louis rolls his eyes, getting to his feet. “I have to talk to Bri, Liam. I’ll be back.”

He heads for a relatively deserted corner, amid the rigging and equipment, and dials Briana’s number.

“Louis?” Briana says, sounding agitated. “Oh- fuck, is today scheduled?”

Louis pauses. “I- yeah. It’s in the calendar and everything. Are you alright?”

Briana huffs. “Oh, Mum and I got into a fight. She wanted Freddie for the afternoon, something about losing followers.”

“I- what.” Louis says, blankly. “But you didn’t let her, did you? I’m  _ scheduled _ -”

“Oh, fuck off.” Briana snaps. “You’re always going on about how we shouldn’t use a schedule, well, here’s what happens when-”

“What,” Louis interrupts, hand tightening around the phone. “When your mother decides that using a  _ seven year old _ for boosting her Instagram followers is an acceptable thing t’do-”

“Get off your high horse. As if you give a damn about Freddie.” Briana snarls, and she’s had a rough day, Louis knows- he  _ knows _ . He  _ knows _ that being a single mother is  _ hard _ , he grew up with one, and he tries terribly hard not to hold things against her, but insinuating he doesn’t care about Freddie is- well.

“Bri,” Louis says, carefully. His hand is convulsive around the phone, every inch of him tense with suppressed anger.  _ As if you give a damn about Freddie _ . “Freddie is my  _ son _ . I know I don’t get to see him in person as often as I should. I  _ know _ . But I swear to fucking  _ Christ _ , Bri, I care about him  _ so much _ . He’s my  _ son _ .”

“Doesn’t seem like it.” Briana sighs, and Louis tips his head against the stucco wall, hard, pain striking him. It centers him, makes him woozy and sharp. “Really? Should I request a paternity test, then?” Louis says, without thinking, and winces.

“Go to hell.” Briana snaps, and Louis thunks his head against the wall again, agitated. It’s spiraled out of control, he doesn’t know how they got like this.

“Briana,” He sighs. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to say that. But- look, love, can’t you see why I'm upset? We’ve always stuck to the schedule- and if you’re willing to talk about getting rid of the schedule, that’d be great - and if you just- don’t bother following it-”

“I’m sorry.” Briana interrupts, sighing. “I- shit. I’m sorry. I was just mad- what you said about Mum, her Instagram followers- I hate to say it, but you’re not wrong. We got into a fight about that, actually, about how she shouldn’t use him like that, and- well.”

“Shit.” Louis sums up, leaning more fully against the wall. “D’you think-”

“I’m going to be able to stop her?” Briana asks, wryly. “I’m not sure. Um, anyway. Sorry about Freddie, we can reschedule? Maybe tonight?”

“We’re playing Madison Square Garden tonight, love.” Louis laughs, relaxing slightly. “Might be a bit busy.”

“Oh!” Briana exclaims. “Shit, that’s tonight? God, congratulations! That’s amazing. You’ll do amazing.”

“Thanks, Bri. Could do tomorrow, though.” Louis offers, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s- let me check, hang on.” There’s the sound of shuffling, and then Briana makes a noise of triumph. “Aha! Okay, so tomorrow’s fine, we’re free all day. How about 9:00?”

“So, noon for me.” Louis checks. They’ve muddled up time zones before.

“Yep.” Briana confirms. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Alright, love. Sorry again.” Louis says, and they hang up. He sighs, stretching, and turns around, only to bump into Harry. He freezes.

“Briana?” Harry surmises, eyes dark in the dim light. Louis cocks his head. “What’s it to you?”

He starts to back away, slipping his phone into his pocket. Harry watches him, silently holding his gaze, and Louis can’t say anything else, fixed in place. “Nothing.” Harry says at last, turning away. His face is shrouded when he next speaks. “Absolutely nothing at all.

  
  


(Before they go out, Louis finds him, head bent over his phone, hair slung in messy curls around his face. Silent, he pushes his face into Harry’s neck, and- equally silent - Harry grips him, arms tight.)

  
  


“New  _ York _ !” Niall yells, and the audience  _ roars _ , everything gone ecstatic and hazy. They’re all caught up in it, blinding lights and screams, the beat thrumming, thrumming, thrumming. Louis can’t help the elated laugh that rises in his throat, thinks  _ It’s been so long, it’s been so long, maybe we’re fireproof…. _

“We missed you!” Liam yells, fist in the air, and the audience goes wild,  _ we missed you too _ crowding the air, arms like fronds, waving furiously through the bulky forms of security. Desperate and half-mad with the frenzy of it all. The euphoria comes back to him, that rush utterly unlike anything else. Enraptured faces turned up to him.

Niall’s in  [ simple clothes ](https://www.google.com/search?q=niall+horan+tour+outfit&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk038jrtfWoGLpqTsv8TkPGvbj_YW0w:1613257698353&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiq_6mg_efuAhWaGs0KHQaUATEQ_AUoAXoECBUQAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=nqDNVWOXpwyWbM) , a white tee tucked into checked trousers, while Liam’s in [ black jeans and a white denim jacket. ](https://www.google.com/search?q=liam+payne+tour+outfit+solo&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwizxvTM_efuAhUTLq0KHcMfDTIQ2-cCegQIABAA&oq=liam+payne+tour+outfit+solo&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQA1CNeViZe2CIfGgAcAB4AIABbIgBoAOSAQMwLjSYAQCgAQGqAQtnd3Mtd2l6LWltZ8ABAQ&sclient=img&ei=P1woYPOqM5PctAXDv7SQAw&bih=871&biw=1577&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918#imgrc=DHV7j9DHbKbKmM) Louis, too, is sticking to simple:  [ green Adidas hoodie ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinson+green+outfit&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwiblYCm_-fuAhXWaKwKHbNQBswQ2-cCegQIABAA&oq=louis+tomlinson+green+outfit&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQAzICCAA6BAgjECc6BwgAELEDEEM6BAgAEEM6BQgAELEDOgcIIxDqAhAnOggIABCxAxCDAToGCAAQCBAeUJqLA1jguANg-rkDaAdwAHgAgAGHAYgBiB-SAQQwLjM1mAEAoAEBqgELZ3dzLXdpei1pbWewAQrAAQE&sclient=img&ei=B14oYNv1BtbRsQWzoZngDA&bih=871&biw=1577&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918#imgrc=TlP08Q2roIIWiM) over crisp black pants, hair styled in  [ loose havoc ](https://www.google.com/search?q=louis+tomlinson+messy+hair&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918&sxsrf=ALeKk02tuOevVdCzcrC2WkAYXBFWPf65Bw:1613258408100&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj7vuHy_-fuAhXkAZ0JHWrbBewQ_AUoAXoECA8QAw&biw=1577&bih=871#imgrc=hKbinNL7E3WmtM) .

Harry’s the star of the outfit show- when  _ isn’t _ he, Louis thinks, wry - in a velvety [ tailored blue suit ](https://www.google.com/search?q=harry+styles+blue+tour+outfit&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwjTz67D_ufuAhWbgU4HHV0CChYQ2-cCegQIABAA&oq=harry+styles+blue+tour+outfit&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQAzIECCMQJzICCAAyAggAMgIIADICCAAyAggAMgIIADIECAAQHjIGCAAQBRAeMgYIABAFEB5Qh9ACWNXnAmCs6AJoAHAAeACAAXOIAfEFkgEDMC43mAEAoAEBqgELZ3dzLXdpei1pbWfAAQE&sclient=img&ei=OF0oYNPTD5uDuuoP3YSosAE&bih=871&biw=1577&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918#imgrc=mDnPuI2hr3x0XM) , open to the sheer white shirt underneath.

[ _ History _ ](http://youtube.com/watch?v=URfdQrNnQ3Q) ’s opening notes come on, and the crowd screams in readiness. They’ve been waiting so long, Louis knows.

“ _ You gotta help me, I’m losing my mind _ .” Harry sings, a smirk slung on his lips. “ _ Keep getting the feeling you wanna leave this all behind _ .”

The crowd sings along with them, screaming. “ _ Thought we were going strong, thought we were holding on… Aren’t we _ ?”

“ _ No they don’t teach ya _ ,” Niall picks up, striding to the center, “ _ This in school, but now my heart’s breaking and I don’t know what to do. _ ”

“ _ Thought we were going strong, thought we were holding on…. Aren’t we _ ?”

A beat, and then they’re singing: “ _ You and me, got a whole lotta history _ !” The crowd bellows with them, and Louis catches sight of a girl crying, tears painting her face, overcome.

“ _ We could be the greatest thing that the world has ever seen! _ ”

All of it- Harry,  _ baby _ , the whole fucking fiasco - all of it melts away, smoothly swept under the rug. This performance, this  _ right now _ , matters more. Louis grins at Harry, winking, and unexpectedly, Harry grins back, disarming and infectious.

“ _ You and me got a whole lotta history _ ,” They sing again, Louis smiling so hard his cheeks ache. “ _ So don’t let it go, we can make some more, we can live forever! _ ”

The show is- indescribable. Everything vanishes, and all that’s left is the songs and the screams. They do  _ Stockholm Syndrome _ and  _ Fireproof _ , then a bonus round of  _ No Control _ \- Louis bites his lip and looks at Harry while singing  _ and I don’t care it’s obvious _ and the audience’s howls carry him through the chorus - and then, it’s time for  _ What Makes You Beautiful _ .

Zayn steps through the back, cool and [ buttoned-up ](https://www.google.com/search?q=zayn+malik+tour+outfit&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwifv7nz_-fuAhWHgE4HHWUPAo4Q2-cCegQIABAA&oq=zayn+malik+tour+outfit&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQAzoECCMQJzoHCAAQsQMQQzoECAAQQzoICAAQsQMQgwE6AggAOgUIABCxAzoGCAAQCBAeOgQIABAYOgQIABAeUKvRF1jp7RdggPMXaABwAHgBgAHPAYgB5BSSAQYwLjIxLjGYAQCgAQGqAQtnd3Mtd2l6LWltZ8ABAQ&sclient=img&ei=qV4oYN_GIIeBuuoP5Z6I8Ag&bih=871&biw=1577&rlz=1C5CHFA_enUS918US918#imgrc=d89ocJ-WV-zWxM) , and the audience goes utterly mad, screaming for him. “Make some noise for Zayn Malik!” Louis yells, and the audience’s screams increase in pitch, Zayn snickering and slinging an arm around him.

“ _ You’re insecure, don’t know what for _ .” Liam sings, and Zayn ruffles Louis’ hair, grinning. “Made up with H, have you?” Zayn murmurs into Louis’ ear, and Louis groans, flipping him off. “Shut  _ up _ .”

“ _ Everyone else in the room can see it _ …” Harry sings, voice dragging out the notes in the way that he does, and they exchange magnetizing looks, catapulting into the chorus:

“ _ Baby, you light up my world like nobody else, the way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed _ …”

They finish triumphantly, Louis grinding up on Zayn, and next is  _ Story Of My Life _ . They move through  _ Midnight Memories _ and dabble in  _ Take Me Home _ with  _ Over Again _ and  _ Little Things _ , which Harry sings entirely to Louis. Louis tries not to look stunned. By the look on Zayn’s face, he’s not sure he succeeds. 

_ Fool’s Gold _ slows things down a bit, the frenzy cooling into something more memorable, something thick with nostalgia and value.  _ Night Changes _ next: “ _ Does it ever drive you crazy? Just how fast the night changes… _ ” 

Soon enough, Zayn melts away into the back, Louis blowing him a kiss. A thousand disconsolate screams follow him out.

They move on to the new album:  _ Changes _ and  _ Chew On My Heart _ and  _ Lego House _ , which Harry sings facing Louis. Louis smiles, nerves rabbiting his heart.

“ _ I will love you better now _ …” Harry sings, voice roughening the words, eyes fixed on Louis. Louis inhales, the sound obvious in the microphone. 

_ Cringe _ is a welcome distraction, the foot-stamping rock of it fun and easy. They scream it along with the audience, laughing. They move through  _ Where Were You In The Morning _ , Louis mock-patting Niall on the back. Niall snorts, poking him and singing  _ how do you just walk away _ ?

They cycle through the darker songs next, singing  _ Wicked Game _ and  _ Hurt Any Less _ with bite to it, anger. It’s not as fun, Louis fighting not to be pulled under the undertow of the songs, the memories associated with them. It’s a relief when they move on to  _ Livewire _ .

“ _ Falling from grace but I wouldn’t change it _ .” Harry sings, and Louis feels the heartbreak of the song, the palpitations. The next song-  _ Afterglow _ \- is the last song of the night, and it seems over far too soon, the energy tumbling in him ready and raring to go.

“ _ Maybe we took things just one little step too far _ ,” Harry sings. He’s next, he slides in smoothly, singing: “ _ At least there’ll be no more destruction now we’re apart. _ ”

“ _ Oooh, are you still starting fires _ ?” Harry sings, high and heady. “ _ We had our own kind of energy… Funny when you’re right there next to me, trouble will find us _ …”

“ _ Ooooh, hope you’re still a livewire _ …” They sing together, harmony embracing the bright lights and dark faces. One final chorus.

“ _ Stop the clocks, it’s amazing _ .” Harry sings. “ _ You should see the way the light dances off your hair. A million colors of hazel, golden, and red. _ ”

They move through the song, and Louis feels himself growing quiet with the nostalgia of it all, a special kind of tragedy in the show’s end. These faces, gazing up at him in awe, he’ll never know them again.

“ _ And we’ll burn so bright ‘til the darkness softly clears. _ ” He sings, soft. “ _ Oh, I will hold on to the afterglow _ .”

“ _ The weather outside’s changing _ ,” Harry takes over, loud and raw, “ _ The leaves are buried under six inches of white. The radio is playing Iron & Wine. _ ”

“ _ This is a new dimension, _ ” Louis sings, high and thick with emotion, “ _ This is a level where we’re losing track of time. _ ”

Liam takes the next lines, and then: “ _ So alone in love like the world had disappeared _ ,” Harry sings, voice soaring high.

“ _ Oh, I won’t be silent and I won’t let go _ ,” Harry continues, eyes burning with strange intensity. “ _ I will hold on tight until the afterglow. And we’ll burn so bright ‘til the darkness softly clears… _ ”

“ _ Oh, I will hold on to the afterglow _ .” They sing, the four of them, voices threading tightly together. “ _ Oh, I will hold on to the afterglow _ .”

After, Louis breathes, sharply, mic dangling from his hand. Harry’s thanking the crowd, blowing kisses amid their cheering. They’ll be gone soon, whisked away to tour.

“Now, normally this is where we’d have to say goodbye.” Harry says, and the crowd hushes. “But I have one more treat for you all today.”

Louis’ head snaps up; what the  _ hell _ is he doing-

“Niall,” Harry continues, turning slightly. “Mind helping me out, here?”

Niall’s grinning, guitar slung over his shoulder. “Sure, mate.” Someone runs up and suddenly, Harry’s holding a guitar, as well. Louis has a very, very, bad feeling about this.

Idly, Harry strums the opening chords for  [ _ Sweet Creature _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pOPjRPJssg4) . 

Louis goes still amid the crowd’s rabid screams of excitement. It takes five minutes to calm them down, but he barely notices, staring at Harry like a cornered animal. There are cameras cataloguing his expressions but he can’t do anything, utterly stunned.

“This song,” Harry says into the mic, fingers slowing- Niall takes over, fingers plucking his guitar expertly - “Is one that’s- very close to my heart. As you might imagine.”

He pauses, smiling, and the crowd screams again. “It’s about- well. I think you’ve all guessed who it’s about.” He glances- obviously,  _ blatantly _ \- at Louis. The crowd’s reaction- well. In his two decades as a performer, he’s never heard anything so loud.

“ _ Sweet creature _ ,” Harry sings, tender. He’s facing Louis. Everyone is watching. “ _ Had another talk about where it’s going wrong. _ ”

“ _ I know we started, _ ” Harry sings, “ _ Two hearts in one home. It’s hard when we argue, we’re both stubborn, I know. _ ”

He pauses, head bent over the guitar, a curl falling into his eyes. “ _ But oh _ ,” He sings, quick and high, “ _ Sweet creature, sweet creature, wherever I go…. _ ”

Louis is flushing, mouth open, and there are a million  [ GIFs of his face right now ](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/542191242614071313/) , but he can’t move, can’t do anything but stand there, hands curling emptily at his sides.

“ _ We’re running through the garden, oh, where nothing bothered us _ .” Harry sings, voice rich with meaning. The garden, hands tightly clasped, two boys in love amid a beautiful world. Nothing to be afraid of.

“ _ When I run out of rope… _ ” Harry sings, hands picking the strings. “ _ You bring me home. _ ”

The audience sings the descants for him,  _ oo-oo-ooh _ , and Harry tilts his head back, exposing his throat,  _ oh _ , “ _ Lou brings me home _ ”, fuck.

Behind him, Zayn sidles up, snickering, and without looking, Louis elbows him, eyes fixed on Harry. “Your boy is putting his cards on the table.” Zayn says, smug. “What’re you going to do about it?”

  
  
  


As soon as they tumble off stage, a thousand screams ringing in their ears, Louis tugs Harry away, tucking him into a deserted corner and jabbing a finger in his chest.

“You,” Louis pants, “What the fuck was that?”

Harry pauses, raking a hand through his curls. “I thought it was obvious.”

Louis raises a brow, still trying to catch his breath. “Gonna have to spell it out for me, babe.”

Harry glances down, hands fisting tightly together. “You said,” He says deliberately, “That I wouldn’t- that I wouldn’t fight for you. That I was always going to just- try to push you out of the closet, but that I wasn’t willing to come out with you- and. That was my way of telling you that- that I am.”

Louis stares. That’s- what. “You- you want to come out?”

Harry steps closer, curling his hands around Louis’. His face is unexpectedly grave when he nods.

Louis leans closer, helpless. His eyes are caught- everywhere, enchanted anew by the pink bow of his mouth, the salt of his sweat, the way his eyes hold light. He can’t stop leaning up, hands sliding around Harry’s neck and pulling him down.

When they kiss, it’s so familiar. There’s none of the stumbling electricity of their first kiss- bunk beds,  _ Sex Pistols _ , 2010 - none the tragedy of the Hallway Incident-  _ nothing else will do _ \- or the fury of 2017- nails raked down backs, fists clenched in fabric, the sofa fabric rough against his skin - only something greater, higher, sweeter, rising like warmth in his chest.

Louis breaks away, sinking to his feet. “You- Harry,” He breathes. “You can’t- promise me you aren’t just doing it for me. If you want to come out- if you want  _ us _ to come out - I can’t be your reason.”

Harry stares at him for a moment, and then his mouth quirks up. “ _ For every question why, you were my because _ ,” Harry sings, voice scratchy and hoarse from the show, and Louis snarls in frustration, yanking Harry down again and kissing him.

The taste of his lyrics on Harry’s tongue proves to be addictive; they snog for long, violet, moments, everything tinged the purple color of dawn. The crew is packing up around them, he hears Niall and Zayn ragging on Liam for something he did during the show. Louis ignores it all, too caught in Harry’s mouth, his hands, his curls.

“No, but.” Louis says, pulling away again. “I don’t want- I’ve  _ never _ wanted to force you into anything. I’ve always- always, always, always wanted you to be free to have what you want-”

“And what I want is  _ you _ .” Harry interrupts, fierce. Louis stares at him, a smile softening his mouth. “Are we really going to do this?”

Harry raises a questioning brow, and Louis buries a disbelieving giggle into his chest, high on post-show euphoria and something more distinctive to Harry. “I mean,” Louis says, “It’s been so long-”

“ _ But baby, we’re fireproof _ …” Harry sings, and Louis punches him in the arm. “Shut  _ up _ , Harold, your betters are speaking.”

He clears his throat. “It’s been almost a decade since we broke up. And- what if we don’t- what if it doesn’t work out? I can’t,” He adds, glancing down, “Lose you again.”

“Baby,” Harry sighs, grinning as his hands slide up to cup Louis’ elbows. “We’re not going to break up.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You can’t be  _ sure _ .”

“You think I don’t worry?” Harry asks, a smile ghosting his mouth. “Sweetheart, I worried so much that I broke up with you in 2015. I’m tired of being so- so  _ cowardly _ .”

Louis falters. “I didn’t- H. You know I didn’t mean it, not like that- I don’t think-”

“I know.” Harry interrupts. “Lou, I know. But you were right, in a way. We’ve both been scared, for so long- me more than you - aren’t you tired?”

Louis watches him for a long time, thinking. Evaluating.  _ For every question why, you were my because. We’ve both been scared, for so long. _

_ Aren’t you tired? _

“You and me,” Louis says eventually, tugging Harry closer, “Gotta whole lotta history.”

Harry stares.

“We could be the greatest thing,” Louis continues, toneless, “That the world has ever seen.”

Harry starts to smile, disbelieving and gorgeous, light peeking through the cracks. 

“I’d walk through fire for you,” Louis says emotionlessly, trying not to smile back, “Just let me adore you.”

“ _ Lou _ ,” Harry breathes, giggling, and suddenly they’re 16 and 18 and everything is fresh, the world is still full of glorious promise, nothing spoiled or rotted. They’re young. The world is at their feet. They have each other.

“We’re still young,” Louis says, smiling,  _ finally. _ “We don’t know where we’re going,” He laughs, breaking as Harry tickles his sides, “But we know where we belong.”

“ _ I know we started _ ,” Harry sings back, eyes crinkling, “ _ Two hearts in one home _ .”

“ _ It’s hard when we argue _ ,” Louis murmurs back, and God, it is, it is, but it’s so fucking worth it. “ _ We’re both stubborn, _ ” He adds, cracking another smile. “ _ I know _ .”

“ _ But oh _ ,” Harry sings to him, soft and low and intimate. “ _ Sweet creature, sweet creature _ .” Not a performance, not another show, just this: dim light; a voice low and hoarse and gentle, tenderness in the cup of his palms, laughter in his eyes. “ _ Wherever I go, you bring me home _ .” Harry sighs against his mouth.

Always you, Louis thinks, pressing Harry against the stucco, always you.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They tell no one, but everyone guesses, anyway, Niall whooping loudly and Liam crowing and Zayn smiling satisfiedly. Lottie, Daisy, and Phoebe have flown out for the show, and seeing Harry’s arm around his waist, they know immediately, squealing and hugging him so tightly he’ll have bruises come morning.

There’s apparently been an avid gambling ring around the two of them, and money changes hands, Niall crowing in victory and Lottie smiling, catlike and smug. “Are we just a bet to you,” Louis says, mock-offended, and Niall cackles so hard he almost chokes.

“Larry’s  _ back _ !” Niall coos, pinching his cheeks. “Using ‘we’ again, my goodness. Good to see, good to see, lads.”

“I hate our ship name.” Louis hisses to Harry. “What was wrong with Houis?”

“I like it,” Harry says steadily, “Because it’s a symbol of our love.” Honestly. This kid.

They get utterly wasted, all of them, and it’s plastered over all the papers next morning, but Louis doesn’t care. Doesn’t care, even when he sees the most incriminating photos: Harry curled into him, face pressed into his neck with laughter. The placement of Harry’s hand on the small of his back, intimate and edging into inappropriate territory. (“You have  _ no idea _ ,” Harry says, very seriously, “How much self-discipline it took not to grope your arse. No idea.”)

Louis kisses Harry in the middle of their next show. He wasn’t planning on it- they’re still in the process of figuring out how, exactly, they should come out - but, well, Harry was singing  _ Little Things _ to him,  _ again _ , that smile crinkling his eyes. It’s  _ not _ Louis’ fault.

“ _ I’m in love with Lou, and all his little things _ …” Harry sings, the audience roaring, and abruptly, Louis drops his microphone, stalks over to the other side of the stage, tugs Harry down, and kisses him on the mouth, right in view of a million iPhones, recording, taking photos,  _ whatever _ . The audience are the loudest they’ve ever been, ever, he hears a security guard yelling. He doesn’t care, he feels high on not-caring.

He hears Liam laughing. “Goddamn, Tommo. Well, alright, then.” Niall’s cackles float through the air. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a  _ fuck _ . 

Harry tastes minty, gum and sharp spearmint. His hands slide around his waist, tug Louis closer by the hips, thumb pressing into his nape.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Liam booms, “You came for a show, and you got one.” 

Without breaking the kiss, Louis flips him off. The audience’s screams increase in pitch.

“Christ, Lou.” Zayn sighs into the microphone. “Really? In the middle of the show?”

“Couldn’t have waited until the hotel?” Niall picks up, laughing. “We hear you two, you know.”

“I hate them.” Louis murmurs against Harry’s mouth, sliding his hands into Harry’s hair. Harry giggles, “Love you.”

“Hate you, too.” Louis mutters, biting at Harry’s lip gently; Harry gasps. “You  _ love _ me.” Harry corrects, nose nudging his. A bolt of tenderness strikes him square in the heart.

“It’s a  _ fine line _ .” Louis says, pulling away. Harry’s eyes widen. “Did you just-”

“And what’re you going to do about it?” Louis smirks, backing away. He turns, swiping up his microphone absently.

He lifts it to his lips. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all, this is the longest fic i've written- the longest fucking thing i've written, period - and i'm really, really, proud of myself. i actually never believed i'd finish this, and i'm so unbelievably happy i did.
> 
> if you took the time out of your day to read this fic and leave a comment: i love you, your words are the reason i kept writing. special shout-out to the user TheAlpacalypse, my #1 internet fan, who kept me motivated with their lovely comments. 
> 
> i'm going to try to work on my harry potter WIP now, but if you liked this fic, please subscribe: i promise there will be more larry coming up. i have a million larry ideas that i can't wait to write. (lmao I have 40K of a canon-adjacent model!Louis AU written already. i'm not going anywhere.) Don't forget about meeeeeeee 
> 
> please stream walls and fine line, and keep being your lovely beautiful selves who do lovely beautiful things. xx


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